Anyone But You
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Pre-series – Teenchesters – It was them against the world. And it seemed their world now included cancer.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary** : Pre-series – Teenchesters – It was them against the world. And it seemed their world now included cancer.

 **Disclaimer** : Not mine.

 **Warnings** : Usual language, plus John isn't portrayed as a nice guy in the first part of this 'verse. If that bothers you, best to move along now.

 **A/N** : The older I get, the more I realize we're all one unexpected phone call away from our lives changing forever.

* * *

 _The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday. ~ Mary Schmich_

* * *

It started with a phone call, the sound startling in the quiet motel room as the brothers sat across from each other at the small table in the corner.

Dean having picked Sam up from school barely an hour ago and both now focused on completing different tasks – Sam trying to finish his homework while Dean scanned newspaper articles, researching possible cases in the area.

In fact, when the phone had first rung, Dean had expected to see John's number, had expected their dad to be calling earlier than usual and groaned at the anticipated conversation.

"I am _not_ in the mood to deal with his shit."

Sam glanced up from his homework but said nothing.

Father and sons' relationship having been strained for the past two months since that night John had momentarily lost control and had hit Sam so hard the 12-year old had ended up sprawled on the floor.

That night Dean had threatened their dad.

That night Sam had stopped talking to John.

That night everything had changed.

Since then, John stayed gone for even longer periods than usual. The brothers having not seen their father in over a month since John had last left them.

And John didn't call as often, either – usually just once a week and usually on a Wednesday.

But even those brief conversations between father and oldest son were tense and awkward and usually resulted in either swear-filled yelling or icy silence.

And Dean was not in the mood for that shit, especially since today was only Tuesday.

He was supposed to have at least another 24 hours to psych himself up for his weekly battle with the asshole who was their dad.

But the phone was ringing _now_ , so...

Dean sighed as he glanced from the newspaper to the caller display and then frowned at the unfamiliar number.

Because only five people had this cell number – or _should_ have this cell number – and Dean knew all five of them, knew which numbers to expect.

But he didn't know this one.

So the phone continued to ring.

Sam huffed at the disturbance. "Are you gonna answer it or what?" he asked, his tone further reflecting his annoyance as his gaze flickered between Dean and the phone laying between them on the table.

Dean shrugged, still staring at the caller display. "I don't recognize the number."

"So?" Sam countered, his pencil hovering over his math homework. "Sometimes he calls from different numbers."

Dean nodded at the truth of that statement. "Yeah, I guess," he agreed and shifted his attention to Sam. "Finish your homework, so you can help me with this," he told his brother, gesturing at the other newspapers on his side of the table.

Sam scowled at the order. "I have other homework besides math, Dean."

"Then I suggest you get busy, Sammy," Dean returned. "Chop, chop."

Sam's scowl deepened, but he refocused on the calculations neatly printed on his notebook paper as Dean finally answered the call – the big brother holding the phone to his ear but saying nothing, waiting for the caller to speak first.

Sam rolled his eyes, sometimes hating it when Dean was so cautious.

Just answer the phone like a normal person...seriously.

There was a beat of silence disturbed by a bus inexplicably blasting its horn as it roared past the motel.

Sam glanced out the window, squinting in the weak rays of the setting sun, and then turned his attention back to Dean.

"Um...hello?" someone asked on the opposite end of the line.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar voice – the unfamiliar _female_ voice – which only made this call more mysterious since Dean never gave this number to _anyone_ , including potential hook-ups...even though this woman sounded too old to fit that description.

Because while Dean appreciated all female attention, he wasn't really into cougars and certainly wouldn't have given one his number. It was usually the other way around – the cougars giving him _their_ numbers.

Dean snorted at the memory of his last such encounter and shook his head as the voice spoke again.

"Hello?"

"Yeah..." Dean answered and waited.

Sam immediately bitchfaced him for his rude tone.

Dean ignored his little brother.

"Oh, hi..." the voice greeted. "Is this Dean Winchester?"

Dean pulled a face.

Yeah. Like he would confirm that so easily without knowing who the hell he was talking to.

Nice try.

But no way was Dean handing out that information and potentially placing himself – and more importantly, _Sam_ – in danger. Because most everyone and everything knew that wherever Dean was, Sam was too.

"Who's this?" Dean countered instead and pointed at Sam's homework as his brother continued to stare at him from across the table.

Because being nosy wasn't getting those math problems done...was it, Sammy?

Sam sighed, loud and irritated.

Dean rewarded the nonverbal sass by kicking the 12-year old under the table.

Sam grunted, even though Dean hadn't kicked him that hard, and rubbed his leg as he glared at his brother.

Dean arched an eyebrow – _drama queen much?_ – then glared as well, the intensity of his expression reflecting how serious he was about this.

 _Finish your fucking homework, Sam._

They had other shit to do tonight besides school crap...like combing through these newspapers for potential hunts.

John was gone but that didn't mean Dean had given up on the family business. He still saw purpose in hunting. He was just extra careful now, only pursuing easy cases. Cases he could handle solo – because Sam was a kid and should be kept safe. And cases that were low risk – because who would take care of Sam if Dean ended up dead?

Nobody.

Sam had nobody but Dean.

Dean was the one who took care of Sam, and there was nothing the big brother took more seriously than that.

Dean nodded at the thought and pointed again at the neglected math problems before refocusing on the phone he still held as the voice spoke once more.

"I'm Patricia," the woman identified. "Dr. Stanley's nurse from MMC."

Dean blinked.

Okaaay...

MMC sounded like some kind of wrestling organization, but...

"From the Mercy Medical Center," the nurse further clarified at Dean's silence.

Oh.

Yeah.

Her.

Dean's guard lessened as realization dawned, remembering how he had reluctantly – _very_ reluctantly – agreed to give this number to the nurse yesterday when she had reasonably argued that if there was a problem with Sam's or Dean's blood work, then the clinic would need a way to contact them.

And since she was contacting Dean now, what did that mean?

Dean swallowed as dread began to crawl up his spine.

He glanced at Sam, hoping this call had nothing to do with the kid sitting across from him, hoping Sam's blood work and other routine tests had turned out fine.

Because nothing could be wrong with Sam.

Dean could handle anything else.

But nothing could be wrong with Sam.

It was him and that kid against the world, especially now with what had happened between them and John.

 _And nothing could be wrong with Sam._

Sensing Dean's stare, Sam glanced up.

 _What?_ he mouthed.

Dean shook his head – no need to worry his brother just yet – and pointed again at the homework.

"Oh my god..." Sam moaned at the repeated reminder. "Give it a rest, Dean," he bitched but ducked his head as he refocused on his math.

Dean twitched a smile at the 12-yeard old – such a dramatic little shit – and then swallowed once more at the possibility of something being wrong with his brother.

Because nothing could be wrong with Sam.

 _Nothing._

Dean sighed.

"You and your brother were here yesterday afternoon to receive physicals," the nurse continued to explain over the phone.

Dean nodded.

He and Sam having always gotten yearly physicals just like all good soldiers. John having always insisted upon the annual exams and actually saving money to pay for them instead of running their usual health insurance scams. Their dad explaining to his sons that they couldn't effectively carry out the family business unless they were healthy, that anything less was a liability.

And as Dean had gotten older, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of bitterness at that reasoning – that John seemed to care about his and Sam's health only as it related to hunting.

But whether that assumption was true or not, every January they would find a local clinic. The annual physicals one of the four reasons Winchesters ever sought medical care from anyone other than themselves or other hunters – with broken bones, severe head trauma, and the need for invasive surgery being the other three reasons.

John had taken the boys each year until Dean had turned 16...and then completing the yearly physicals had been added to Dean's list of responsibilities.

And since it was now January, that meant it was time for the annual exams.

Though Dean had briefly considered skipping them this year – a kind of "fuck you" to John as proof they didn't have to follow their dad's orders.

Not anymore.

Not since that night John had thought it was okay to hit Dean's kid.

No.

That had marked the end of John's absolute authority over them.

Dean made the decisions now – _all_ of them.

But in the end, he had decided to follow through with the physicals.

Because sticking it to their dad wasn't worth Sam's health, wasn't worth the risk of something being silently wrong with Dean's little brother.

So Dean had spent the weekend researching local clinics and had taken himself and his kid to the Mercy Medical Center yesterday after he had picked Sam up from school.

That clinic having met the top three criteria Dean had been taught to look for: clean, convenient, and affordable.

And everything had seemed fine.

No complaints, no concerns.

Just another year, another physical.

No big deal.

In fact, Dean hadn't even thought about it again until now.

But now it was all he could think about.

Dean quickly scanned his memory for anything that may have been done or said during yesterday's clinic visit to indicate a problem.

But there was nothing.

The doctor had seemed pleased with their overall health, and everything had gone smoothly.

But now the nurse was calling.

And since she sure as hell wasn't calling just to chat, did that mean she was calling about Sam?

Dean watched his brother as the 12-year old continued to solve his equations on the opposite side of the table.

The kid looked healthy. Had been eating and sleeping...wasn't pale or feverish...wasn't congested or pukey...didn't seem run down or lethargic.

Sure, Sam would still get the occasional migraine when the kid was stressed or overly tired, and those would land him on his ass.

But overall Sam was fine.

And he looked fine now.

Besides, Dean would know if something was wrong with his little brother, right?

Dean would have already noticed...right?

Dean sighed, blinking as he realized the woman on the phone was speaking again.

"Dr. Stanley just reviewed your lab work a few minutes ago and has some concerns."

Dean swallowed. "What kind of concerns?"

Sam glanced up at the question, his pencil frozen mid-8.

Because there was something in Dean's voice that made _Sam_ concerned.

"Well..." the nurse hesitated on the other end of the line, searching for the appropriate wording.

But Dean didn't care about well-chosen words. He only cared about one thing.

"Is Sam okay?"

Sam frowned at the mention of his name.

Who was Dean talking to?

And why would they be concerned about him?

Of course he was okay – he was sitting right here working on these stupid math problems.

"Is Sam okay?" Dean repeated, his tone more insistent when the nurse didn't answer.

Sam tilted his head, confused by the hint of panic in Dean's voice. "I'm fine, Dean," he assured his brother. "I'm right here."

Dean held up his hand to silence Sam as the nurse finally responded.

"He's the younger one, right?" she checked and then answered her own question. "Yes. I see it here now."

There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling in a chart.

"Okay...yes. All of Sam's blood work and other lab tests are fine. His iron is a little lower than we like, so he's a little anemic..."

Dean nodded at the news.

Because Sam had always been a little anemic since the picky little shit wouldn't eat like a normal person.

Dean shook his head in annoyance, deciding the kid would eat red meat tonight for dinner.

No discussion.

Sam would bitch about it.

But Sam was always bitching about something, so...

Dean glanced at Sam as the 12-year old continued to stare at him from across the table. The kid's pencil still frozen in place as it hovered over the notebook paper.

"Dean..."

Dean shook his head at his brother. _It's okay_ , he mouthed, having heard the nervous tremor in the kid's voice.

Because Sam was listening to only one side of this conversation and was starting to freak out.

Not that Dean could blame him.

 _It's okay_ , the big brother repeated.

Sam looked doubtful.

"And he's small for his age," the nurse continued about Dean's little brother. "A little shorter than we would expect and slightly underweight."

...which was another result of Sam not eating enough...and was just another reason why Dean would be choosing Sam's dinner tonight.

"But otherwise, he's fine," the nurse concluded over the phone Dean still held. "No major concerns with him. So, that's good."

Dean nodded his agreement – that was _damn good_ – and then nodded his reassurance to Sam that everything was fine.

Sam's wide eyes held Dean's gaze as he leaned forward over the table. The kid's pencil now resting in the crack of his open textbook since he had abandoned his homework in order to focus more on the conversation.

Dean twitched a smile at his nosy kid, his relief lingering...until he realized the nurse's words implied that while there were no major concerns with Sam – _thank god_ – that didn't mean there were no major concerns with Dean.

After all, the woman was calling for a reason.

And it seemed that reason was Dean.

The 17-year old frowned.

Because he felt fine – maybe a little tired...but who the hell _wasn't_ tired?

Dean sighed, keeping his expression neutral even as dread and panic returned, even as his heart began to pound.

Because Dean knew Sam was still watching him and the 12-year old would take his cues from his big brother.

If Dean freaked out, Sam would do the same...and then some.

Dean sighed again. "So, if Sam's okay, then..."

"Yes," the nurse confirmed, her tone overly gentle. "Our concerns are with you, hon. There were some abnormalities in your blood work."

Dean swallowed, his heart slamming in his chest. "Abnormalities?"

Well, that was certainly vague enough to be scary.

"Yes," the nurse replied. "Your white count is extremely high, and the doctor would like for you to come back to the clinic for further testing."

Dean swallowed again.

Further testing? What the hell did that mean?

Sam stared at Dean, sensing his big brother's distress.

Dean glanced out the motel room's window, avoiding eye contact with Sam. "What kind of further testing?"

Sam shifted in his chair at the question, increasingly uneasy with the direction of this conversation...and with Dean's suspiciously casual behavior.

Because Dean only acted like this when he didn't want Sam to know something, when there was something wrong – _really_ wrong.

Sam shifted again, chewing on his bottom lip.

Dean could feel Sam's anxiety from across the table and glanced at his brother before directing his attention back to the parking lot.

"We'd like to draw more blood," the nurse explained about the additional testing. "Perform a more thorough physical exam...perhaps even a biopsy..."

A biopsy?

Holy shit.

What the fuck was going on?

Dean didn't have time to be _that_ kind of sick.

Hell, he barely had time for a cold whenever one struck.

Dean had evil shit to hunt and kill...and a little brother to take care of...and...

"Are you still there?" the nurse asked at Dean's silence.

"Yeah..." Dean replied and continued to calmly stare out the window as though adrenaline wasn't pulsing through his veins.

Sam saw his brother's jaw clench like it always did when Dean was pissed...or worried...or scared – and _that_ scared Sam.

"I know this is not the kind of call you were expecting," the nurse sympathized on the opposite end of the line. "But the sooner we find out more, the sooner we can put your mind at ease...or start treatment."

Dean blinked.

Start treatment?

Start treatment for _what_?

...though Dean wasn't going to ask that now, not with Sam still staring at him with those wide, scared eyes...and not with his own heart about to jump out of his fucking chest.

Dean inhaled a deep breath.

He just needed to calm down, needed to get his shit back in one bag.

Because this could all be nothing.

Or it could be _something_.

Either way, Dean needed to get a fucking grip and do what he needed to do.

And it seemed right now, Dean needed to schedule further testing, needed to find out what the hell was going on so they could deal with it. Could start treatment or whatever and kick this thing in the ass.

Because Dean had responsibilities.

Dean had a little brother depending on him more than ever now that John had removed himself from their lives.

Dean had shit to do...and being sick wasn't on the list.

Dean sighed, wondering if the sound was as shaky as it had felt.

Judging by Sam's expression, it was.

"Okay," Dean told the nurse over the phone. "When should I come in?"

"Today," the woman answered. "Actually, _now_ if you can. The clinic is open for another two hours. Can you get here?"

Dean swallowed at the urgency in the nurse's tone – the very clear implication that this shouldn't wait, that this _couldn't_ wait.

But still Dean hesitated, stuck between wanting to know what the fuck was going on...and wanting to pretend this phone call had never happened.

Only if something was seriously wrong with Dean and he didn't get diagnosed, didn't get treated...then what would that mean for Sam?

Dean couldn't neglect his own health at the risk of putting Sam in danger...at the risk of becoming so sick he couldn't take care of his little brother...at the risk of _dying_ and leaving the kid alone.

As much as this sucked, as much as this scared the shit out of him, Dean had to do whatever testing the doctor wanted.

He owed that to himself and to Sam.

Dean glanced at his brother, the kid breathing too fast and shallow as he stared back.

Sam was scared.

And he didn't even know yet.

Dean sighed and tried to smile but knew Sam saw through it.

Sam shook his head. _Don't._

...as in _don't bullshit me._

Because Sam was a smart kid and he wanted answers – _real_ answers.

And so did Dean.

That's why he owed it to both of them to find out what they were dealing with...and then deal with it.

It was the way John had raised them – do your research, then carry through with your hunt.

And as much as Dean despised their dad these days, he couldn't argue against that advice.

Because the same principle could be applied to this situation – do the testing, then carry through with the treatment.

Get _it_ before it gets _you_.

Dean sighed once more, adjusting his grip on the phone he still held in his left hand while he rubbed his right thumb across the smooth metal of his ring, spinning it around his finger.

Around and around and around...

Sam watched his brother's nervous habit and swallowed.

This was bad.

This was really, _really_ bad.

"Yeah, sure..." Dean finally agreed about going to the clinic for further testing. "I can come now."

After all, the clinic was just across the street two blocks over. He could walk there.

In fact, he and Sam had walked there yesterday when they had gone for their physicals.

And suddenly yesterday seemed so long ago – a magical place where nothing was wrong.

Where he and Sam had celebrated Dean's birthday at the nearby diner. Where they had celebrated Dean turning 17 and being another year closer to official adulthood with burgers and salad and pie. Where an awesome little brother had somehow saved enough money to surprise Dean by proudly paying for dinner that night _and_ giving him a kick-ass mix tape.

Yesterday had been a good day.

And this day had been good, too.

Until now...

Now it fucking sucked, and Dean had a feeling it was about to suck even more as soon as he went to the clinic.

He sighed.

"Great!" the nurse enthused about Dean's availability to come to the clinic. "Can we expect you within the hour?"

"Yeah," Dean responded, once again staring out the window to avoid Sam's intense gaze from across the table.

"Okay," the nurse replied. "I'll let Dr. Stanley know, and we'll see you soon."

Dean nodded and ended the call, tossing the phone on the table. The clatter the only sound in the room besides the muffled traffic from outside and Sam's fast, shallow breathing.

Several seconds passed.

Then...

"What's going on?"

Of course Sam would be the first to speak.

Dean shrugged, his gaze flickering between the window and his brother. "Nothing. I just gotta go take care of something," he announced, deliberately vague as he stood.

Sam scowled. "Dean..."

"I'll be back," Dean continued as if Sam hadn't called his name, and lifted his leather jacket from the back of his chair, slipping it on over his plaid button-up with the black t-shirt underneath.

Sam stared at him.

"Stay here and finish your homework," Dean told his brother, grabbing the phone from the table and pocketing it. "If you need me, call me. But I shouldn't be gone long. And when I get back, we'll go get dinner and – "

" – Dean, stop," Sam interrupted, grasping his brother's arm as Dean walked past him heading to the door.

Dean paused, staring down at Sam.

Sam blinked back. "What's wrong?" the 12-yeard old asked, his voice cracking since he already feared the worst, already knew something serious was going on and Dean was only trying to protect him.

Because that's what Dean did – always tried to protect him.

Dean always tried to protect his little brother, whether it was from bad news...or a drunk father.

Sam swallowed at the brief flash of memory from that night John had hit him and quickly pushed it away, reminding himself that he wasn't going to think about it.

 _Ever._

Sam swallowed again.

"Dean..."

Dean said nothing as he glanced around the room, then back to Sam.

Sam's heart pounded at his brother's hesitation, recognizing one of Dean's avoidance strategies but still pressing to know. "Dean, _please._ "

Dean sighed, always a sucker when his little brother used the combination of _that_ tone and _that_ expression. "I don't know, Sammy."

Sam pulled a face. "Dean."

"I'm serious," Dean promised in response to his brother's skeptical tone. "I don't know what's wrong. And I don't think _they_ know what's wrong, either. They just want me to come back for more testing."

Sam frowned. "Who?"

"The clinic," Dean answered, gesturing in the direction of the facility beyond the motel.

Sam's frown deepened as his stomach twisted. "Why?"

Dean shrugged, trying to keep this as low-key as possible. "Not sure. Something about my blood work..."

"Oh god..." Sam breathed and Dean could feel the slight tremors suddenly coursing through the kid's arm as Sam continued to grip his wrist.

"Sam. Don't..." Dean admonished, knowing his brother had immediately jumped to horrible conclusions.

Sam blinked at him. "This could be bad, Dean."

"Or it could be nothing," Dean countered and reached for his brother's hand, prying the kid's fingers loose from his wrist. "Which is why you're gonna calm the fuck down and finish your homework...and I'm gonna go do whatever over at the clinic...and then we're gonna eat dinner and watch TV and everything's gonna be fine."

Just another night.

Sam shook his head. "No. I'm coming with you."

"Yeah?" Dean arched an eyebrow as Sam stood. "And what about your homework?"

Sam glanced at the open textbook on the table, snatching the pencil from its crack and instead shoving the notebook paper half-filled with math problems between the pages to mark his place before closing it.

"It can wait," Sam replied, cramming the book into his backpack propped against the leg of the table and scowling as the edges of his paper snagged on the zipper.

Dean watched his little brother, the kid too OCD to just leave everything spread out on the table. Because after all, they were coming back to the room in a couple of hours and Sam would just have to drag all that crap out again to finish his homework.

But it didn't matter.

Sam would rather leave his side of the table clean – all neat and tidy.

Dean shook his head fondly.

Sam zipped his backpack with a frustrated huff – stupid paper ripping on the stupid zipper – and then faced Dean. "I wanna come with you to the clinic."

"I can see that," Dean responded dryly about Sam's preparations to do so. "But Sam..."

"I'm coming with you, Dean," Sam repeated and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, slipping it on over his hoodie. "And you're not changing my mind."

Dean snorted – how well he knew _that_ fact about this stubborn 12-year old – and then sighed his annoyance. "You are such a pain in my ass."

"I know." Sam smiled, the little shit. "You're welcome."

Dean chuckled, soothed by this normal routine of their usual banter and surprisingly reassured by his little brother going with him to the clinic.

Besides if Sam stayed at the motel alone, all the kid would do was worry about Dean.

And all Dean would do was worry about Sam being alone.

So this was a better plan.

"Fine," Dean agreed about Sam tagging along. "But one rule..."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"No freaking out," Dean warned, holding Sam's gaze. "I mean it, Sammy. No matter what they say or what they might do to me – "

" – do to you?" Sam echoed, already looking freaked out. "Oh my god. What does _that_ mean?"

Dean said nothing as the word _biopsy_ looped in his mind.

Sam shifted where he stood, blinking up at his brother. "Dean..."

Dean shook his head. "I don't know," he replied, because that was true – he didn't know what kind of further testing he was about to undergo. "I'm just sayin'...whatever happens, no freaking out."

Because Dean could just picture Sam's expression if the doctor started talking about biopsies or god knows what else...

Even Dean still wasn't comfortable with the idea.

But he would do whatever had to be done.

Because Dean had a little brother to take care of...and he couldn't take care of Sam if he wasn't healthy himself.

"You hear me?" Dean asked, reaching for his brother and readjusting the collar of Sam's coat to lay flatter beneath the hood of the kid's sweatshirt.

Sam tolerated the motherhenning with only a soft sigh, recognizing another of his brother's nervous habits – Dean's tendency to fuss over Sam when he was anxious.

"Sammy..." Dean prompted.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "I hear you. No freaking out."

Dean nodded. "Good," he praised, wondering how long Sam would be able to uphold that deal.

Hell, Dean wondered how long _he_ would be able to uphold his own rule.

Because biopsies...they usually indicated some seriously scary shit.

Shit _worth_ freaking out over.

Dean shook his head, reminding himself there was nothing to worry about...yet.

They just needed to take one thing at a time.

And the first step in that process was going back to the clinic.

"Okay..." Dean stared at Sam who was staring at him. "You ready?"

Sam nodded.

Dean did the same. "Alright then. Let's go..." he announced, once again reaching for Sam and settling his hand on the back of the kid's neck, offering a quick reassuring squeeze before guiding his brother out the door.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

They were quiet as they walked to the clinic.

Both brothers lost in their own thoughts as the crowd moved with them and against them. The sidewalk jammed with people coming and going. The downtown area busy at 4:30 on a Tuesday afternoon as shops and restaurants and other places of business – a gym, a hair salon, a bar and grill – lured customers through their doors like proverbial moths to flames as evening approached.

Despite the setting sun and the dipping temperatures, people strolled along hand-in-hand, bundled in coats and scarves while they sipped their coffee and enjoyed their time together browsing in windows.

Others scowled and bustled, dragging overloaded shopping bags or fussy children – or both – behind them as they made their own path through the crowd, offering distracted apologies over their shoulders as they pushed past.

Dean kept his brother close. His hand still resting on the back of Sam's neck as he steered the kid down the sidewalk, dodging those who weren't watching where they were going and glaring at the assholes who bumped into him or Sam.

"What's the fucking rush?"

Sam shrugged at his brother's rhetorical question and shivered as the late January wind blew cold and sharp and biting. The 12-year old tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat as they continued walking.

"Almost there, Sammy..." Dean commented, knowing his brother was freezing and wishing the kid had stayed back at the motel like Dean had told him.

But no.

 _I'm coming with you, Dean._

Dean quirked a fond smile at his stubborn little brother, still surprisingly comforted by having Sam with him to face whatever awaited at the clinic...but hoping the kid didn't get sick from being out in the falling temperatures.

One sick Winchester at a time, please.

And it seemed it was Dean's turn to fit that description.

...though maybe not.

Maybe Dean wasn't sick.

After all, he didn't _feel_ sick.

Maybe the initial blood work had just been screwy for some reason, had turned out a false positive for something that wasn't really there.

That happened sometimes.

Maybe they would all laugh about this later when the new blood work came back fine, would indulge in the kind of nervous, relieved laughter that resulted from successfully dodging a bullet.

Maybe.

 _Hopefully._

Because Dean _wanted_ to laugh. He wanted to roll his eyes and be pissed that these doctors and nurses had scared him over nothing.

But Dean doubted it would be that simple.

Nothing was ever that simple.

Not for them.

Dean sighed. "Almost there..." he repeated, his own anxiety swelling in his chest as the clinic's sign came into view across the street.

Sam nodded that he saw it but didn't otherwise respond, instead ducking his head to swipe his coat sleeve across his face. His nose running from the unrelenting wind.

Dean frowned, not liking the kid's silence or his sniffles. "Sammy..."

Sam glanced over his shoulder, Dean still slightly behind him as the 17-year old steered the 12-year old down the sidewalk.

"You okay?" Dean checked, even as he scanned his little brother.

But aside from windblown hair and pink, wind-burned cheeks, Sam looked fine.

Sam nodded again, indicating he was indeed okay, and then faced forward as the brothers continued to walk.

Dean let it go for now, knowing Sam was still processing the earlier phone call that had led to their unexpected return trip to the clinic...and knowing he just had to wait the kid out.

...which could take minutes or hours, depending on how much Sam was silently obsessing.

Dean ruffled the kid's hair – an _it's okay_ and _I'm here_ all-in-one.

Because this was scary – especially for a kid – and Dean got that, was there for Sam as much as Sam was there for him.

And whatever this turned out to be, whether something or nothing, then they would face it like they always did... _together_.

Dean and his kid against the world.

Damn right.

Bring it on.

Dean nodded once, feeling the warmth of reassurance.

Minutes passed.

Dean scanned his and Sam's surroundings as they continued to walk, trying not to be annoyed that the trip to the clinic was taking longer than yesterday.

"Where the hell did all of these people come from?" Dean grumbled, pulling Sam closer as he elbowed through a small clump of 30-somethings clogging the sidewalk outside an already overflowing bar.

Sam said nothing but shrunk against his brother as he allowed Dean to guide him through the crowd.

Conversations floated around them, peppered with soft kisses and delighted laughter, even the occasional yell...and then all of it overwhelmed by air brakes squealing and hissing as a bus arrived at its next stop.

Dean glanced at the passengers spilling onto the sidewalk to join the chaos.

"What else did they say?"

Dean blinked at Sam's voice and redirected his attention to his brother, knowing Sam was referring to the earlier phone call and "they" meant the clinic.

Dean quirked a smile, amused that Sam's question and tone made it seem as though their conversation back at the motel had never paused.

"Dean..." Sam prompted when his brother didn't answer.

And that's how this kid worked – either silent as a rock or chatty as a parrot.

Now that Sam had sorted through everything and had decided to start asking questions, good fucking luck getting him to shut up again.

Dean's smile lingered as Sam persisted.

"What else did they say?"

Dean shrugged. "I've already told you."

...though the big brother had kept the high white count, the possibility of a biopsy, and the vague mention of treatment to himself.

Because Sam would only worry – and Sam was already worried.

Hell, _Dean_ was already worried.

And Sam sensed it, too.

Sam knew Dean was anxious, which was only making Sam more anxious.

Dean could feel the kid's tension in the bunched muscles beneath his hand, and he rubbed his thumb at the base of Sam's neck as he continued to guide the 12-year old through the crowd.

"Relax. Everything's gonna be fine."

Sam shook his head, feeling his hair brush across Dean's fingers. "They don't call if everything's fine, Dean."

And the kid had a point.

The brothers had been through enough physicals over the years to know that nurses didn't call requesting additional testing if everything was fine.

But Dean could be stubborn, too.

"Everything's gonna be fine, Sammy," the big brother insisted, his thumb still coaxing Sam's muscles to relax. "Just chill the fuck out, huh? Before you work yourself into a migraine..."

Because that's how Sam operated – the kid's stress leading to tension in his neck and across his shoulders, which then usually coursed upward and triggered a massive headache.

"Sammy..." Dean called. "You hear me?"

Sam sighed, indicating he had heard Dean and didn't appreciate being treated like an old woman with a case of the vapors. "I'm fine, Dean."

Dean hummed his doubt but let the issue drop.

There was a pause.

A horn honked in the street and someone waved from the car's window while someone else waved and yelled back from the sidewalk.

"Did they say what was wrong with your blood?"

It was Dean's turn to sigh.

So much for Sam chilling the fuck out...

"Did they?"

"No," Dean replied, because _high white count_ really didn't tell what was wrong. "They just want more of it."

And possibly a tissue sample, too.

Dean cringed at the thought, wondering _what_ they wanted to biopsy...and when...and how he was going to pay for all of this.

He only had a little over $500, and that was meant for food and the motel and...stuff.

Dean's budget didn't include extra doctor visits and additional tests.

Sure, he could always hustle more cash, but...

Dean blinked as his mind abruptly switched topics.

...but who would take care of Sam if Dean was out of it for a few days?

Sometimes biopsies were a big deal – depending on _what_ was biopsied – and recovery could be slow. So, who would take care of Sam if Dean was laid up?

Dean inwardly groaned at having one more detail to work out.

Of course, everything depended on what happened at the clinic, but still...

Maybe Dean would call Bobby later...or Pastor Jim. Or hell, even Caleb could probably watch out for Sam for one or two days while Dean recovered. It would just depend on who was closest to them, who could make the drive in the shortest time.

Sam would scoff at having a babysitter...but that was just too fucking bad.

No way would Dean consider leaving his 12-year old brother to fend for himself while Dean was not 100%.

And no way would Dean consider calling John.

Fuck him.

Dean clenched his jaw at the memory of their dad advancing toward Sam that night back in November. John having slapped the shit out of the kid in the blink of an eye. Before Dean could even react, Sam had been knocked to the floor of their motel room.

Dean's jaw clenched even tighter as he remembered how Sam's cheek had almost instantly bruised from the force of the blow, how the 12-year old had stared up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

Dean had immediately lifted his little brother and had tucked the kid behind him as he had raged at John, had threatened their dad in a fury of anger and hurt and betrayal.

Because how could John have done that?

The grief-filled date and the drinking that always accompanied the anniversary of Mary's death explained what had made John momentarily lose control that night...but it didn't excuse it.

Nothing excused a grown man – _a father_ – from hitting a 12-year old child.

 _Nothing._

And Dean meant what he had said to John that night – had meant every word.

John knew it, too. Knew he had crossed the line...had lost his boys' trust...had done what was unforgiveable in Dean's eyes – hurting Sam.

And Dean knew their dad was sorry, had seen the shock and instant regret in John's expression that night, but...

Sam sighed, scattering Dean's thoughts. "What did they say about me?"

Dean glanced at his brother, reminding himself to not waste time and energy on the past.

What was done was done.

And John wasn't in their life now. He was just a weekly phone call.

But this kid walking beside Dean...this kid _was_ his life. Sam was all that mattered...was the reason Dean kept going...was the only one who made everything worth it.

Dean twitched a smile at his little brother.

Sam blinked up at him. "What did they say about me?"

Because Sam remembered the first part of the phone call back in the motel room when Dean was asking whoever was on the line if Sam was okay.

"Just the usual," Dean reported and pulled his brother to a stop as they lingered at the curb, checking traffic both ways before crossing the street.

"The usual," Sam echoed as they finally approached the clinic's walkway. "What does _that_ mean?"

Dean briefly considered a smartass answer but decided against it. "It means you're too scrawny and too low on iron."

"Oh."

Dean snorted at Sam's quiet, short response. "Yeah. Oh."

Sam glanced up at Dean, feeling his brother's hand shift on the back of his neck. "Does that mean – "

" – yep," Dean confirmed and smiled his smug pleasure at delivering the news. "That means it's burger time for Sammy."

Sam wrinkled his nose at the punishment. "Dean..."

"Don't 'Dean' me," the big brother countered as they passed through the clinic's automatic double doors. "You're anemic, Sam...which is probably why you're tired and cold all the damn time."

Dean gestured at the layers of clothes the kid always wore and was wearing even now...and was _still_ shivering.

Sam shrugged. "So?"

"So..." Dean continued. "That means you're not winning this one," he informed his brother about their current debate. "It's red meat for the rest of the week. It'll put hair on your chest."

"That's stupid," Sam huffed. "And besides, being anemic isn't _that_ big of a deal, Dean."

"It's a big deal to me."

Because anything being wrong with Sam, no matter how minor, was a big deal to Dean.

"But I don't like burgers like you do."

"Too bad, so sad..." Dean quipped in response to Sam's complaining. "I'm crying on the inside, Sammy."

Sam scowled. "You're such a jerk."

"And you're such a whiny little bitch," Dean returned, chuckling as he roughly – _affectionately_ – tousled Sam's hair before releasing his grip on his brother now that they were safely inside the clinic.

Sam's scowl deepened as he smoothed his hand over the messy strands.

"Good luck," Dean remarked about Sam succeeding at making his hair look decent and then chuckled once more as his little brother punched his arm. "Dude. You hit like a girl."

Sam growled his annoyance and swung again.

Dean accepted the second punch with a grin.

Sometimes it was just too easy to get under the kid's skin.

But at least Sam was distracted now, was irritated by Dean's teasing and not worried about why they were here.

...which meant Sam was now slightly more relaxed and Dean's mission was accomplished.

Dean's smile lingered as he and Sam crossed through the clinic's lobby. The big brother checking all exits and mapping a path to each one before cataloging every single person in the waiting room and determining their threat level.

The cute young blonde currently crossing her legs and oh-so-casually lifting the hem of her short skirt to flash her thigh at Dean? No threat.

The girl's mom glaring a hole through Dean? Also no threat.

In fact, Dean winked at the mom and then nodded appreciatively at the woman's daughter to thank her for the peep show.

The young blonde smiled.

Her mom did not.

Dean continued through the waiting room, keeping one eye on Sam as the kid walked a few steps in front of him and another eye on their surroundings.

There was an older couple in the corner who were no threat...and two empty seats in the opposite corner where Dean would likely sit with Sam if they had to wait.

It was a good location since their backs would be against the wall – reducing the risk of something attacking from behind – and Sam could be tucked securely in the corner with only the wall and Dean beside him.

Dean nodded, liking those corner chairs even more, and then blinked as he noticed a middle-aged woman staring at him, suggestively licking her lips while rubbing her hand back and forth across her chest.

Dean cringed at the invitation.

Wow. No thanks, Mrs. Robinson.

"Cougar alert," Dean whispered to Sam and smiled when Sam glanced at the woman and then shrugged his indifference.

Obviously not today, but one day the kid would appreciate such warnings.

Because the cougars were going to love Sammy's floppy hair and dimples.

Dean's smile widened, hoping he was there to see Sam's reaction the first time an older woman hit on the kid in the years to come...but his smile faded as he noticed Mrs. Robinson wasn't the only one watching them.

Some creeper – a guy who looked like he could be Mr. Rogers – was locked in on Sam, was following the kid's every move as the 12-year old crossed the waiting room and was smiling at Sam in a way that made Dean instantly on guard.

Dean glared at the creeper and then reached forward, snagging the edge of Sam's hood and pulling the kid back toward him.

Sam blinked at the unexpected tug and then glanced up at Dean as his brother was suddenly beside him instead of behind him. The 12-year old prepared to bitch about Dean's overprotectiveness but changed his mind when he recognized Dean's expression.

Dean nodded, confirming there was a potential threat in the area, and tilted his head.

 _Other side of me._

Sam returned the nod, glancing around the waiting room as he crossed to Dean's opposite side while they walked, effectively hiding himself from the creeper who was a little too eager to watch a 12-year old boy.

Dean glared once more at Mr. Rogers and then flashed a smile at the receptionist as he approached her desk.

She smiled back. "Hi, there."

Dean nodded his greeting, thankful this young, attractive girl was the receptionist today instead of that old, cranky woman from yesterday.

"May I help you?"

"I hope so, Mindy," Dean replied, reading the girl's badge and then glancing at her necklace. The silver cross pendant perfectly framed by the deep V-neckline of her pink shirt and dangling just above the crease of her breasts.

Mindy looked down, following his gaze.

"Nice necklace," Dean commented, clearly complimenting something else of Mindy's besides just her choice in jewelry.

Mindy blushed and giggled, tucking her brown hair behind her ear as she glanced up at Dean through her feathery bangs.

Sam rolled his eyes, shifting as he stood beside Dean at the receptionist counter.

Leave it to his big brother to flirt no matter what.

Sam sighed.

Because believe it or not, they were there for a _reason_ – and that reason wasn't Mindy.

Dean glanced at Sam, hoping one day the kid understood the importance of working this angle and appreciated the advantages flirting could afford if done right with the right girl.

But right now, Sam just looked annoyed...with maybe a hint of worry resurfacing.

After all, they _were_ standing in a clinic – a clinic neither brother had expected to return to after yesterday, much less return to barely 24 hours later.

And yet, here they were.

Dean refocused on Mindy. "Listen, sweetheart..."

Mindy leaned forward on her desk, ready and eager to listen to whatever Dean wanted to tell her...and to most likely _do_ whatever Dean needed.

And _that_ was the power of flirting, Sammy.

Take notes.

"I got a call maybe half an hour ago from a nurse saying I needed to come back over here for more testing."

Mindy blinked. "Oh," she replied and frowned at the news. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Sorry?" Sam echoed, his worry surging. "Why are you sorry? Is that bad? Does that mean something bad?"

Mindy glanced at the cute kid she just now noticed. "No, no..." she attempted to soothe. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what _did_ you mean?" Sam pressed. "People usually say they're sorry only when it's something bad."

Unable to argue against that logic, Mindy glanced at Dean for help.

Dean smiled. "It's okay," he assured the uncertain receptionist. "My little brother is just a little...excitable."

Mindy nodded.

Dean held his smile as he wrapped his arm around Sam's narrow shoulders, drawing the kid close and squeezing his bicep a little harder than usual before rubbing his thumb over the same spot. The gesture meant to reprimand as well as comfort – a _chill the fuck out_ immediately followed by a more soothing _relax, kiddo_.

Sam exhaled a shaky breath, marginally calming beneath Dean's touch.

Mindy's wide-eyed gaze flickered between Dean and the panicky 12-year old standing beside him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset him."

"It's fine," Dean dismissed but decided to use Sam's outburst to their advantage. "We're just a little on edge since that call."

"Yes, of course," Mindy sympathized.

"So, maybe..."

Dean's voice trailed off, allowing the receptionist to draw her own conclusions about what he wanted from her.

Women were usually pretty good at that.

And Mindy did not disappoint.

She smiled, easily following Dean's train of thought.

"So maybe I can get you back to see the doctor a little quicker than the rest," the receptionist finished and glanced at the other patients scattered around the waiting room who had been there long before this good-looking guy and his cute little brother.

Dean nodded at her offer as if he hadn't already thought of that. "Oh, man...that would be awesome," he agreed about not having to wait. "I mean...if you can do that. I don't want to get you in trouble or anything."

Mindy shook her head. "I won't get in trouble. Who's your doctor?"

The question was odd.

Because Dean wasn't used to having a doctor he saw routinely.

"Dr. Stanley," Sam replied for his brother. "That's who we saw yesterday."

Mindy smiled, amused and touched by Dean's little brother answering for him.

Sam blinked back at her.

Mindy's smile widened – what a sweet, adorable kid – before she glanced at Dean. "I guess his nurse Patricia called you earlier?"

Dean nodded.

Mindy did the same. "Well, she's probably expecting you, so this won't take long. What's your name?"

"Dean."

"Dean..." Mindy repeated and felt a bit flushed – such a cool name for the cool guy standing in front of her.

She glanced at Dean's little brother.

"And your name?"

Just because she was curious.

Sam checked with Dean.

Because sometimes he wasn't allowed to tell people his real name.

But Dean nodded his permission.

Sam refocused on the receptionist. "Sam."

Mindy smiled.

 _Sam and Dean._

That was somehow perfect.

"Alright..." Mindy began as she stood from her desk. "You two just hang tight, and I'll be right back."

Dean nodded, watching as she disappeared around the corner.

Beside him, Sam shifted and sighed...and then shifted again.

Dean glanced down at his fidgeting little brother. "Hey. Relax..." he urged, his arm still around Sam as his thumb rubbed back and forth over the kid's shoulder. "So far, you're really sucking at the 'no freaking out' rule."

"Sorry," Sam muttered, glancing up at Dean as they continued to stand in front of the receptionist desk. "I'm just – "

" – I know, Sammy," Dean interrupted, once again squeezing Sam's arm. "Me, too."

Dean was worried, too.

And that only made Sam _more_ worried.

The 12-year old leaned his head against Dean's side as they waited for Mindy to return and briefly closed his eyes at the reassuring scent of worn leather from Dean's jacket.

Minutes passed.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, surveying the waiting room – all the same people as before...including the cougar and the creeper – and then glanced down at Sam, his thumb still rubbing the kid's arm.

Sam sighed again and opened his eyes. "Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy..."

Sam shook his head, apparently not wanting to talk...but just wanting to say Dean's name.

The kid did that sometimes when he was scared or nervous – drew comfort from just saying his big brother's name.

Dean smiled softly and tightened his arm around his brother as they waited.

Seconds later Mindy appeared in the doorway separating the waiting room from the rest of the clinic.

"Guys..." she called, motioning them over.

And thank you, Mindy, for not yelling their names across the waiting room.

The last thing Dean wanted was for Mrs. Robinson and Mr. Rogers to know his or Sam's name.

Dean nudged Sam forward, his hand sliding up the kid's arm as they walked to once again rest on the back of Sam's neck – a soothing, grounding presence for a nervous 12-year old.

Mindy smiled as the brothers approached, wondering if they had any idea how incredibly sweet it was to watch them interact – both brothers' worlds so clearly revolving around the other.

Mindy swallowed against the emotion suddenly lodged in her throat. Her smile slipping as she remembered Patricia's expression seconds before when she had told the nurse that Dean had arrived.

Mindy had been a part-time receptionist at the clinic for the past two years and knew the tells of the doctors and nurses like a poker player knew the tells of his opponents.

She knew how to recognize their candid worry before they hid it behind a professional mask, knew when the situation was urgent even as they maintained a well-practiced calm.

And Mindy had sensed both from Patricia – worry and urgency, which never resulted in good news.

"Oh my god..." Mindy had whispered in the hallway as she had stared at the nurse. "Is it bad?" she had asked, echoing Sam's words from earlier.

"I don't know," Patricia had replied, unable to give details. "But Dr. Stanley is concerned."

Mindy had frowned, unsure what to think – because sometimes Dr. Stanley was just overly cautious...and sometimes Dr. Stanley was a genius in detecting the unknown.

The doctor aptly nicknamed the "Magic Man" for his seemingly magical ability to diagnose diseases in their early stages – often before any symptoms developed.

The Magic Man responsible for saving hundreds of lives since early detection and early diagnosis usually led to early treatment...which resulted in high percentages of happy, healthy, _living_ patients who were cured, in remission, or successfully maintaining their conditions through medications.

Patricia had smiled, had patted Mindy's shoulder since she could tell the young woman liked Dean.

"Don't worry," the nurse had told the receptionist. "You know he's in good hands."

Mindy had nodded – because there was no better doctor at the clinic than Dr. Stanley.

Patricia had nodded as well. "Go ahead and call him back. I'll grab his chart and meet you outside the exam rooms."

Mindy had nodded again...and now here she was, staring at Dean as he and Sam stood in front of her.

Mindy smiled. "Good news," she announced, ignoring the little voice that said this was likely the last bit of good news the brothers would hear today. "No waiting. You can come on back."

Dean smiled. "Awesome. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Mindy returned, though his flirting and her influence as a receptionist had nothing to do with Dean's quick admittance.

Whatever was in his chart was solely responsible for Dean skipping to the head of the line.

Mindy swallowed at the reminder. "This way..." she invited, stepping back and allowing the brothers to pass through the open door.

Dean nodded – wondering if this was how VIP guests felt when they were being ushered backstage at concerts – and again nudged Sam forward, his hand still resting on the back of the kid's neck.

Mindy followed, allowing the door to shut behind them. "Just wait here," she instructed the brothers. "Dr. Stanley's nurse should be – "

" – here I am," Patricia interrupted, appearing around the corner with Dean's chart.

Dean focused on her – the nurse looking at little older than he had remembered from yesterday – and then frowned as he noticed the woman staring at Sam.

Sam shifted beneath her intense gaze and edged closer to his brother.

Dean's thumb rubbed over the kid's neck. "Problem?"

Patricia shook her head, sensing the protectiveness in Dean's tone. "No," she assured. "I just wasn't expecting you to bring him." She paused, still staring at Sam as if he was a problem to solve. "Um...hmm."

The nurse glanced at Mindy.

Mindy blinked back.

Dean scowled at the implication they were trying to figure out what to do with his brother. "Sam's coming with me," he told them.

Because if they thought Dean was leaving his little brother in the waiting room alone, then they had lost their fucking minds.

No way would Dean leave Sam unprotected in an unfamiliar place filled with strangers.

If Sam wasn't back in the motel room behind a locked door and a line of salt, then Sam was with Dean.

Simple as that.

And if these women had a problem with that, then Dean would be leaving and taking his kid with him.

Patricia smiled as she attempted to defuse the situation, sensing she had unintentionally pissed off the teen standing in front of her and feeling surprisingly uneasy as he glared at her.

"I'm sorry," the nurse apologized. "I didn't mean to offend. I just...well...I'm not sure what Dr. Stanley might be doing during this afternoon's visit."

And by her meaningful stare, Dean knew she was referring to the biopsy she had mentioned over the phone...which meant in her own misguided way, Patricia was trying to protect Sam.

Dean nodded, now understanding her line of thinking. "It's okay," he assured her. "He'll be fine. Won't you, Sammy?"

...though Dean had his doubts about the truth of that statement – because Sam was going to freak the hell out when he heard the word _biopsy_.

The kid was already an anxious bundle of nerves.

Sam glanced up at Dean, frowning his confusion about this conversation but also nodding his agreement, trusting his big brother.

Dean squeezed Sam's neck.

 _That's my boy._

There was a pause – a doctor passing by at the end of the hall, another nurse snatching a chart from the nearby shelves that stretched behind the receptionist desk.

Dean sighed. "Are we ready?" he asked Patricia, because seriously...they had other shit to do besides waste time here.

And the sooner Dean did this additional testing crap, the sooner he could get Sam fed and back to the motel to finish his homework before bed.

After all, tonight was a school night. And Sam had a bedtime. A bedtime Dean strictly enforced during the week since Sam was a moody little shit when he was tired.

"Yes. Right this way..." Patricia called, turning and walking down the hall.

Dean glanced at Mindy as she continued to stand across from him and his brother. "Thanks for your help," he told her. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Maybe," Mindy returned and smiled. "But not here."

"God, I hope not..."

Mindy laughed, her smile lingering before she blinked, suddenly startled by the ringing phone on her desk.

"Guess you better get that," Dean advised and waited for the receptionist to cross back behind the counter before pushing Sam forward to follow the nurse who was looking over her shoulder.

Patricia frowning as she realized her patient and his brother were still at the receptionist desk.

"Sorry," Dean apologized as they approached. "Sam's always flirting," he explained about their reason for dawdling and glanced at his little brother, shaking his head. "Enough's enough, Sammy. Really. It's embarrassing."

Sam pulled a face at the far-fetched explanation and rolled his eyes.

Yeah. Sure. _He_ was the one who was always flirting.

Patricia laughed at the big brother's obvious teasing – because after all, she had seen who was _really_ flirting.

"Yes, I'm sure it is," the nurse agreed in mock seriousness about Dean's embarrassment and smiled at Sam as the brothers entered the exam room behind her.

Sam quirked his own smile, secretly thankful for his big brother's humor.

Because no matter what Dean faced, he was always in tune with Sam...always knew how to put Sam at ease...always knew when Sam needed to be distracted and soothed.

...like right now as the brothers settled into the two chairs along the exam room's wall.

Sam and Dean sitting side-by-side as they prepared to face the unknown...together.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

This was a familiar scene.

This same routine having been completed yesterday before the brothers' physicals and having been repeated countless times at other clinics as well – this perfected, low-key version of a "smash and grab" having taken place in exam rooms all over the country for as long as the Winchesters had been on the road.

First it had been John as he had raided medical supplies and had swiped items to restock his first aid kit. Had targeted supplies most easily found in clinics and hospitals – samples of medications, suture kits, syringes, needles. Supplies that were hard to come by and were even harder to keep since hunts went bad a hell of a lot more often in those early days.

There had been more injuries back then resulting from rookie mistakes.

But then a couple of years had passed.

And John had gotten better at his job, had begun to sustain fewer injuries less often but had still helped himself to medical supplies whenever they were available.

Then one day John had taught Dean, had instructed his eight-year old kid in just another tradition of the family business – saving people, hunting things...and taking whatever you needed when others weren't looking.

"It's not stealing," John had assured his oldest son that day in that rural clinic as Dean had used one hand to hold onto the sleeve of a squirming four-year old Sammy and the other hand to stuff a couple of suture kits into his coat pocket.

Dean had nodded at his dad but had held John's gaze.

Because if this wasn't stealing, then what _was_ it?

John had swallowed, had been struck in that moment by just how much his life had changed since Mary had died, by just how much he rationalized to himself and how often he manipulated others – even his own son.

Mary would have ripped him a new one if she had seen, would have asked John if he had lost his fucking mind teaching their child to steal.

But Mary hadn't been there.

Mary was dead.

And this...this was...

"It's survival," John had finally explained to an eight-year old Dean that day he had taught the kid to be a thief. "It's _survival_."

And survival didn't care about what was right or wrong.

Survival only cared about making it to the next day...and to the next...and then to the one after that.

It was all John cared about as well – making it through each day alive with his sons.

And if that was wrong...

John had shaken his head, had silenced any other thoughts.

"It's survival," the young father had repeated once more and had handed his eight-year old kid another suture kit to smuggle out of the clinic while his four-year old had watched with those wide eyes.

And even now, several years later, Sam was still watching.

"Dean..." the 12-year old huffed, shaking his head in disapproval as his brother rummaged through the cabinets and drawers of the exam room. "You really shouldn't be doing that."

"Doing _what_?" Dean countered, continuing his well-practiced search through the clinic's medical supplies.

Sam scowled, hating it when his brother acted clueless.

Because Dean knew damn well what he was doing.

" _That_ ," Sam pointed out as Dean yanked open one of the drawers. "You shouldn't be doing _that_."

Dean shrugged at his little brother's scolding. "I'm just looking, Sammy," he defended, though he planned to do more than look if he found what he was looking _for_.

And Sam knew it, too.

"Yeah," the 12-year old agreed about Dean's plan. "Looking for stuff to steal."

Dean shrugged again – unable to dispute that – and then crouched, angling for a better view of the back corner of the pulled out drawer.

"Nada," Dean announced about the drawer's contents and shook his head in frustration. "What the hell?" he demanded, closing the drawer and moving to the next. "Yesterday's room was the freakin' mother lode. Then today they put us in this room that's got jack."

...which wasn't 100% true – the exam room _did_ have medical supplies, but it was stocked with just the basics. Gauze and bandages and tape and blah, blah, blah.

That was crap.

All of that could be bought cheap at any local pharmacy or corner drug store.

What Dean wanted was the good stuff, the stuff he had been taught to look for and snatch and then hoard in the Impala's trunk.

Especially medication samples and suture kits – those were the top two items on the Winchester wish list and both had been acquired during yesterday's clinic visit. Those prized possessions having found a new home in the pockets of Dean's leather jacket and then having been stashed in their first aid kit as soon as the brothers had returned to their motel room.

Yesterday had been a good day in the hunt for freebies.

But today...not so much.

Dean shook his head again. "Alright, drawer #2..." he began, sounding like he was a hopeful contestant on a game show. "Let's go. Be good to me."

Standing across the small exam room, Sam rolled his eyes as Dean pulled open the second drawer.

Dean quickly scanned inside and then glared. "Who the fuck needs this much gauze?" he ranted. "I mean, seriously. They could wrap a fucking mummy with all this shit."

Sam twitched a smile.

Dean glanced at him. "It's not funny, Sam."

Sam's smiled widened. "I'm not laughing."

"Yeah, well...you're _smiling,_ which is close enough."

Sam rolled his eyes again. "Whatever. Besides, maybe they know what you did yesterday and put us in this room on purpose."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the idea. "Like they're punishing us with drawers full of gauze?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know," he replied, because it sounded lame when Dean said it that way.

But...

Sam paused, his theory suddenly worrying him.

Because what if the clinic personnel _did_ know what Dean had done yesterday? What if they _did_ know that Dean had stolen quite a bit of their supplies?

What if this whole scenario about Dean coming back to the clinic for more testing was really just a set up? What if the police busted into the room any second to arrest Dean for theft?

Then what?

What would Sam do without Dean?

Sam swallowed as his mind buzzed with unlikely possibilities. "Dean..."

"Relax, Sammy," Dean told his brother, already knowing Sam's thoughts.

Because even though neither John nor Dean had ever gotten caught stealing, Sam still worried about it, was still uncomfortable with the entire operation no matter how many times he had watched it occur.

And Sam was worried about it now – was worried about the potential consequences of stealing in addition to already worrying about the potential bad news they were at the clinic to receive.

It was too much, and Dean could see the signs of his little brother becoming overwhelmed.

"Hey..." Dean called and shook his head as Sam continued to stare at him with those big eyes. "Stop," he admonished about the worry overload.

Sam only blinked at him.

"I mean it, Sammy. Relax. Everything's fine," Dean assured. " _This_ is fine," he added, gesturing to the open drawer and wondering where Sam had acquired such a strict moral compass.

That certainly wasn't a trait taught or encouraged by John.

And it wasn't a trait shared by Dean.

So maybe it was part of Mary, a trace of their mother's goodness tucked safely inside of Sam.

Dean liked to think so.

...which was why the big brother tolerated Sam's scolding about this...why he protected Sam from ever having to actively participate in these mini heists...why he had convinced John long ago that Sam's role in this part of the family business should be lookout only.

Because Sam was a sweet kid – was intrinsically good – and Dean wanted him to stay that way.

Their mom would have wanted that, too...would have expected Dean to keep Sam safe and out of trouble.

"You're a big brother now," Mary had whispered to Dean as the four-year old had held a sleeping baby Sammy on that second day of May back in '83. "Do you know what that means?"

Dean had nodded, his gaze fixed on his newborn brother as he had sat beside Mary in her hospital bed. "That means he's _mine_."

Mary had laughed, had been both amused and touched by her oldest's instant possessiveness of her youngest.

"Well, yes..." the young mother had agreed, had kissed her four-year old as Dean had continued to hold an infant Sam. "Sammy _is_ yours. He's your little brother. And that's a big responsibility."

Dean had nodded again. "I know. Daddy told me."

Mary had smiled at the mention of John and had glanced at her husband asleep in the nearby chair.

"Daddy said the most important thing was to watch out for Sammy."

Mary's gaze had lingered on John. "Mmm..." she had hummed – would have loved to have heard that conversation between father and son – and had refocused on Dean.

Dean had blinked at her, had still held his baby brother with remarkable confidence and a gentleness that most four-year olds did not possess – like Dean was an expert at handling Sam already, even though the baby was only hours old...and even though the brothers had just met.

Mary had smiled again at the sight of her boys...had sensed they would be inseparable from this moment...had felt as though her heart would burst with love.

"Yes," she had finally agreed about John's advice. "Daddy's right. Sammy will always be younger than you. That means you have to take care of him. You have to keep him safe and watch out for him."

Dean had beamed at the responsibilities of his new job as a big brother. "I will," he had promised with all of the love and determination a four-year old's heart could hold. "I _will_."

And even now, with years passed and Mary gone and John absent, Dean was still keeping his promise, was still taking care of his brother and watching out for the kid he loved – _his_ kid.

...which was why nothing could be wrong with Dean...which was why this additional testing had to turn out fine – because who would take care of Sam if something happened to Dean?

The big brother shook his head, refusing to think about that, and opened the third drawer in the exam room, once again distracting himself by looking for the elusive medical supplies.

Across the room, Sam continued to lean against the door to prevent any unannounced visitors.

Not that his scrawny body would stop anyone from entering the exam room, but it would provide enough resistance to buy Dean a few extra seconds.

Those extra seconds having been invaluable in the past, allowing Dean time to shut cabinets and drawers and stash the loot before resuming his seat as if nothing had happened in the nurse's or doctor's absence.

Sam watched his brother, remembering a few of their close calls and hoping they didn't have any today...especially since it seemed Dean's efforts were for nothing.

And although Sam _hated_ this part of their life – hated the stealing and the sneaking and the overall dishonesty – he also knew that money was tight and they _needed_ these items.

The kid having taken enough medication samples to know the value of prescription-strength pain management and the worth of feeling better sooner with antibiotics.

The 12-year old having witnessed enough motel room surgeries to know the importance of having plenty of suture kits to stitch together gaping wounds left by supernatural creatures.

Because having one less kit than you needed could result in your father bleeding out...or your brother dying on the bed closest to the door.

Sam swallowed at the memory of blood-soaked sheets and blood-stained hands. Shaky fingers threading needles as rough voices whispered soothing nothings. Coarse stitches sliding through flesh...back and forth...back and forth.

Thank god they had swiped and stocked enough suture kits.

Thank god Dean had pulled through that night.

And thank god Sam wasn't alone.

...though he might be soon if Dean was sick.

Sam felt his chest tighten, reminded of why they were at the clinic for the second consecutive day – not for a supply run but because Dean's blood work was abnormal...was abnormal enough to warrant further testing.

And sometimes further testing led to a horrible diagnosis.

What if that happened to Dean?

What if Dean had a condition that couldn't be treated?

What then?

What if Dean _died_?

Sam sighed, feeling shaky and dangerously close to tears as he refocused on his brother.

"Anything?" he asked, though he could tell by Dean's expression that the third time was not a charm in this instance, that drawer #3 was also empty of medication samples and suture kits.

"Nope. Nothing. Good thing we cleaned house yesterday," Dean commented, referring to the items he had stolen the day before, and shut the final drawer before returning his attention to the cabinets he had searched earlier.

Still guarding the door with his back pressed against it, Sam sighed once more and closed his eyes, suddenly aware of how much his head hurt as it rested on the cool metal surface behind him.

Seconds passed.

Muffled voices filtered in from the hall.

"Hey..." Dean called, abandoning his search for medical supplies and crossing the few steps back to Sam, frowning at the pinched expression on the kid's face.

Because that expression wasn't just fatigue and worry – that was _pain_.

Dean's frown deepened. "Hey..." he called again.

Sam opened his eyes, startling as he realized how close Dean was to him. "What?" he asked, squinting up at his brother. The lights too bright.

And Dean knew even before he asked.

"Does your head hurt?"

Sam hesitated, briefly considering playing this off – because Dean had other things to worry about besides whether or not Sam's head hurt.

After all, _Dean_ was the one who was possibly sick.

But Dean already knew anyway, so...

"Yeah."

Dean nodded at the confession that always made his stomach twist with dread.

Because when Sam's head hurt, it _hurt_.

Sometimes the pain transforming from a dull ache to a throbbing, searing migraine in the span of only minutes. Sometimes only minutes separating Sam from being relatively okay...to being a crying, puking, whimpering mess under siege from too much pain, too much light, and too much sound.

Dean only hoped they weren't minutes away from that happening now.

"Okay..." Dean replied, remembering his own rule about not freaking out, and swept aside the kid's bangs for a better look at Sam's eyes.

Sam blinked back at him.

"How bad?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe a three or a four."

Dean nodded, relieved. "So, not too bad..." he translated

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Not right now, anyway." He paused. "I'm sorry."

Because Dean had warned Sam earlier about stressing himself out to the point of triggering a headache...and the last thing they needed right now was for that headache to morph into a migraine.

"I'll try to stop."

Dean snorted at Sam's offer, like the kid could control his tendency to worry or could prevent his body's reaction to stress.

"It's okay," Dean soothed, tugging on the front of Sam's hoodie and pulling the kid away from the door. "C'mere. Sit."

Sam scowled at the command. "I'm not a dog, Dean," he grumbled, even as he followed his brother's order and sat in the chair Dean had gestured to.

The chair farthest from the door. The one Sam had been sitting in earlier, the one with his coat draped over the back.

"Good boy," Dean praised as though Sam was indeed an obedient puppy who sat when told.

Sam glared up at him.

Dean chuckled, pushing aside his leather jacket and plaid shirt resting in the seat of his chair and settling in beside Sam.

There was a beat of silence between the brothers.

Someone in the hall laughed, the phone at the receptionist desk rang.

Sam sighed and leaned his head against Dean's shoulder.

Dean glanced down at the 12-year old – Sam's actions speaking louder than words.

Because a clingy little brother usually meant one of two things: a little brother who didn't feel good...or a little brother who was scared.

Or sometimes, like now, it was both – a scared little brother who didn't feel good.

Who didn't even feel like holding his head up.

And suddenly Dean was suspicious about the accuracy of Sam's report a few minutes ago.

"Sammy..."

"Hmm..."

"If your head hurts worse than a three or four, now would be a good time to tell me," Dean advised, because the big brother knew Sam sometimes under-reported the severity of his headaches...only for the truth to be revealed when the kid abruptly threw up.

And Dean really didn't want to deal with that situation here at the clinic. Would rather postpone his additional testing and instead get Sam back to the motel room and settled if that's how their evening was going to dissolve.

But Sam shook his head, rubbing his cheek against the sleeve of Dean's black t-shirt.

And yeah, that was convincing.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the kid still resting against his shoulder. "I mean it, Sam," he warned. "None of this brave little soldier crap."

Sam snorted, knowing exactly what Dean was referring to, and wrinkled his nose at the memory of those few times he had underestimated his own body.

But right now…

"I'm okay," the 12-year old replied, his fingers rubbing over the edge of tape on Dean's arm.

The white paper tape the phlebotomist had used to secure the doubled-over gauze pad in the crook of Dean's elbow after she had drawn several vials of blood. The woman having entered the exam room even before Patricia had finished taking Dean's vitals earlier.

Everyone at the clinic having acted as if there was no time to spare when Dean had first arrived.

The sense of urgency surrounding his big brother had only made Sam more anxious.

But after the initial flurry of activity, the brothers had been left alone.

In fact, they hadn't seen anyone from the clinic in almost 30 minutes...and now _that_ was making Sam anxious.

Where was everybody? Huddled in a room down the hall getting their plan together for this additional testing? Getting washed up and gloved up and ready for battle?

Sam glanced at the clock on the wall by the sink. "What's taking so long?"

Dean shrugged, feeling Sam's head shift as the kid continued to lean against his arm. "I don't know," he replied, also glancing at the clock and wondering the same.

Because it was now 5:00 and the clinic closed at 6:00, so they really needed to get this show on the road.

Otherwise...

"Five more minutes, then we're leaving," Dean grumbled, his patience rapidly thinning since he knew Sam didn't feel well.

"'Kay," Sam murmured, knowing he should probably argue against that plan.

After all, Dean needed to complete whatever tests the nurse had called him back for.

But leaving the clinic and going home to the motel sounded nice.

Really nice.

Sam swallowed and closed his eyes against the constant glare of the harsh fluorescent lights overhead.

Seconds ticked by. The clock seeming loud in the quiet exam room now that the brothers were actively waiting for something to happen – for the nurse to return, the doctor to show up, or the five-minute mark to arrive.

Dean glanced down at Sam as his brother rested more heavily against his shoulder. "Hey. Don't go to sleep, Sammy."

"M'not," Sam mumbled and then startled when the door suddenly opened.

"I'm back," Patricia announced as though that wasn't obvious by her entrance into the exam room. "I'm sorry it took so long," she apologized, shutting the door behind her and crossing to the counter to set down the small tray she was carrying.

Dean narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to see what was _on_ that tray.

But the nurse's body blocked a clear view.

"It's so crazy around here in the afternoons," Patricia continued to explain, turning to face Dean. "Everyone's trying to squeeze in everything before the day ends, you know?"

And no, Dean didn't know...nor did he care.

All the 17-year old cared about was doing whatever he had to do to be done here so he could get his brother home before the kid's level three or four headache sadistically transformed into something much worse.

Because that's how Sam worked – fine one minute and the next minute... _not_.

Patricia seemed to be noticing that tendency about Dean's little brother as she stared at Sam now. The kid pale and lethargic as he sat beside Dean, blinking back at her but not bothering to lift his head from Dean's arm.

This was certainly a different version of the 12-year old than she had seen earlier.

The nurse frowned and glanced at Dean, then again at Sam. "What's wrong?"

Sam said nothing.

Dean answered for him. "His head hurts," the big brother reported about his clingy, quiet kid. "So, if we could hurry this up..."

Patricia nodded at Dean's blunt tone. "Yes, of course," she agreed, accustomed to patients' moods darkening and their patience dwindling. "I'm sorry you've had to wait. Dr. Stanley should be here in just a few minutes. He was right behind me in the hall."

She paused, her gaze flickering back to Sam.

"And I'm sorry you don't feel good, sweetie," the nurse told him, hating to see anyone in pain. "I know this is stressful," she commented, alluding to the reason most people got headaches.

She glanced again at Dean.

"Is he okay? Do I need to – "

" – no," Dean interrupted, not liking the direction of that question – because Dean could take care of his brother by himself, thank-you-very-much.

He didn't need her to do anything.

Patricia nodded. "Okay," she replied, not seeming offended by the sharp edge in Dean's voice. "Well...does Dr. Stanley need to examine him?"

Dean shook his head. "The only thing Dr. Stanley needs to do is hurry the hell up."

Because seriously...almost 45 minutes had passed since they had arrived at the clinic and Dean was over this shit.

Not to mention they were racing against a different clock now that Sam's head hurt – that short time frame separating the kid from being sluggish and quiet to barely able to function.

Patricia stared at Dean's little brother, beginning to realize the situation. "Does he get migraines?" she asked, vaguely remembering that detail from the child's chart.

Dean nodded. "Sometimes."

Patricia cringed her sympathy.

Sam continued to blink at her, not really caring that his brother and the nurse were discussing him as though he wasn't sitting _right_ there.

He just wanted this clinic visit to be over.

And he wanted Dean to be okay.

And if his head stopped hurting, that would be nice, too.

Sam sighed.

"Does he usually take anything?" Patricia probed, correctly assuming that if Sam was ever medicated, it was Dean who made the decision and dispensed the pills.

Dean shrugged. "It depends," he responded, because sometimes Sam took Tylenol or something similar...and sometimes Dean didn't even bother trying to dose the kid since he would just throw it up.

"Well, we have some samples here," Patricia informed, the nursing side of her always wanting to make people feel better. "Prescription-strength Tylenol would certainly help with the pain, and we have doses for kids. I could get you a few of those samples if you'd like..."

Dean blinked, surprised by the offer, and quickly changed his tone. "Really?" he replied as though he had never heard of such samples. "Wow. Yeah. That'd be great. Thank you."

Patricia nodded. "No problem," she assured, pleased that any tension between her and her patient seemed instantly smoothed over by this gesture.

Free stuff always had that effect.

The nurse smiled.

"I'll just go grab a few," she told Dean, crossing back to the door. "We have a hard time keeping them stocked since some patients tend to help themselves to our medical supplies. It seems we have to be more careful about what we keep in the exam rooms these days."

Dean shook his head. "It's too bad you can't trust people anymore," he commented about those thieving bastards and felt Sam shift beside him.

Because hello – they were among those thieving bastards.

Only Patricia had no clue.

Dean smiled as the nurse ducked into the hall.

There was a beat of silence.

"Well played."

Dean snorted at the quiet praise from the kid sitting to the left of him. "Thanks. But I didn't plan that."

"I know," Sam replied, tired and quiet. "But still...well played," he repeated, always impressed with how his brother could bend any situation to meet their needs. "Guess we won't be leaving empty-handed after all."

"Guess not," Dean agreed, though he would happily leave the clinic with no free samples if that would make Sam feel better.

But Sam didn't feel better, so...they might as well take the free meds.

Their first aid stash was running low, even with yesterday's haul, and Sam would undoubtedly need medicating before the evening was over.

Dean sighed at the thought. "How's your head?" he checked, glancing down at his brother.

"The same," Sam reported and carefully sat up.

Dean scanned the kid blinking back at him. "Good. Try to keep it that way, huh? At least until we leave here. Then we'll dose you up and you can go to bed. Maybe sleep it off."

"No," Sam countered, looking panicked at the suggestion. "What about my homework? I still have to finish my math. And then I have a chapter to read and some questions to answer and – "

" – we'll see," Dean interrupted, ending that topic, and then glanced at the tray the nurse had set on the counter earlier.

Sam followed his gaze. "What's that for?"

"I don't know," Dean responded, though he suspected it was for the biopsy.

Could see a syringe and a small bottle of what he assumed was a local anesthetic along with a scalpel and a few other instruments. Instruments needed to gather an adequate tissue sample and deposit it in the clear plastic container with the bright orange biohazard label.

Dean swallowed in nervous anticipation.

Because although Patricia had mentioned the possibility of a biopsy over the phone, actually _seeing_ the tools required to complete the procedure was a bit unnerving.

Plus, for some reason, Dean had assumed the biopsy – if he needed one – would happen maybe tomorrow or the next day. Not _right fucking now_.

But judging by the tray on the counter across the room, it seemed shit was about to get real.

Dean inhaled a slow, deliberate breath – reminding himself to keep it together, that his stressed out little brother would worry even more if he sensed any anxiety from Dean.

In fact, the big brother could feel Sam watching him now.

"Dean..."

"It's okay," Dean automatically soothed, hearing the tremor in the kid's voice since Sam was beginning to realize what the tray implied as well.

Sam opened his mouth to say more but then glanced at the nurse as she reentered the room.

"Here you go..." Patricia told Dean, handing him several packets of medication samples.

Dean accepted them, grateful for the freebies and for the distraction.

Anything to keep him from fixating on that ominous tray and obsessing over the looming biopsy.

"If Sam takes one of these, it will definitely help his headache," Patricia predicted and then paused. "But he's a little smaller than usual, so just be sure to read the dosing instructions on the back first."

Dean scowled at the unnecessary advice, because yes...he already knew that.

This was not his first day on the job as big brother.

Dean had been giving Sam medication for years.

"Is he going to take it now? Should I get some water?"

Dean shook his head. "No," he replied, wondering if the nurse realized she was being pushy about this issue, and slipped the medicine samples into the pocket of his leather jacket still wadded behind him in the char. "He'll take it later."

Because Sam tolerated medication best when he took it with a meal, which meant Dean planned to dose the kid after dinner and then put Sam to bed when they returned to the motel room.

Fuck whatever homework Sam had left.

It could wait.

It was more important to Dean to prevent a full-blown migraine from completely taking over his little brother.

"Well, just be sure he drinks plenty of water, too," Patricia advised Dean about Sam. "Sometimes dehydration can trigger headaches or even..."

Her voice trailed off as Dr. Stanley suddenly appeared in the doorway. The nurse always feeling slightly silly that the sight of him usually made her speechless.

This 30-something guy, tall and rugged with dark hair and dark eyes who was amazingly smart but wasn't an arrogant ass about it...was still a cool, funny, down-to-earth guy. The kind of rogue doctor who could be anywhere earning an insane salary but who preferred to stick around his hometown and make a difference at the local clinic.

Yeah, it was clichéd.

But in this case, it was also true and incredibly sexy.

Patricia smiled, freshly in love with this good-hearted, good-looking man lingering in the doorway as he glanced through his patient's chart. The nurse reminding herself that she was old enough to be Dr. Stanley's _mother_ , not his lover.

But the reminder only made her smile wider.

Because so what? She was old, not dead.

And she knew how lucky she was to be working alongside this doctor every day. How lucky the patients were to have access to his level of expertise and instinct and care.

Patricia sighed.

Dean frowned at the nurse's prolonged silence and turned slightly in his chair, following her gaze to see who the hell she was smiling at.

Sam did the same, blinking at the man they had been waiting for and feeling nervous at the sight of him.

Because this was it – either good news or bad news...and god only knew what kind of news the additional testing would produce. They were still days or maybe even weeks away from having to face those results, and Sam already wanted to throw up just thinking about it.

Or maybe Sam wanted to throw up because his pulse was throbbing in his left temple.

Either way...

The 12-year old swallowed, his bony shoulder brushing against Dean's arm as he inched closer, seeking the reassurance of his big brother.

Dean glanced at the anxious kid sitting beside him.

Sam stared back from beneath his fringe of bangs, his legs now swinging back and forth. His restlessness increasing with his apprehension.

It was classic worried Sammy and was likely doing nothing to improve the kid's headache.

Dean briefly patted Sam's knee, stilling his brother's nervous movement.

 _Relax. It's okay._

Sam blinked at him.

Dean nodded.

 _Really. It's okay._

No matter how uncertain things seemed right now, everything was going to be okay.

Dean wanted his little brother to take comfort in that, to believe that...even if Dean had his doubts.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

"Howdy, fellas..." Dr. Stanley greeted the brothers, entering the exam room with Dean's chart tucked under his arm and kicking the door closed behind him.

Dean blinked at the unexpected casual greeting and felt himself relax, reminded that he actually liked this guy when they first met yesterday during the physicals, that this doctor was candid and approachable, not stuffy and arrogant.

...which was good.

Because Winchesters didn't mix well with stuffy and arrogant.

But this guy, with his jeans and boots and scruffy beard, seemed like a regular guy. The kind of good guy who spent his free time volunteering at a clinic to help the sick and less fortunate...but who also appreciated a cold beer, a hot chick, and a wild night when he wasn't working.

And Dean could appreciate _that_ , all of that – as well as appreciate the t-shirt framed by the edges of the doctor's white lab coat.

Dean smiled. "Nice shirt."

Dr. Stanley paused in the middle of the exam room, arching an eyebrow at Dean's comment and glancing down as if he had forgotten which shirt he was wearing.

"Ahhh..." he drawled in recognition of the faded graphic. "Thanks." He glanced back at Dean. "Zeppelin fan?"

"Hell yes," Dean confirmed. "Zeppelin rules."

Dr. Stanley nodded his agreement. "Damn right they do. They've done some of the greatest songs ever recorded. But me...I'm a 'Black Dog' man," he confided, naming his favorite Zeppelin song. "That riff – "

" – is the dirtiest, sexiest riff around," Dean finished, completing the famous description of that riff from Slash. The lead guitarist of Guns N' Roses having known a thing or two about riffs.

Dr. Stanley chuckled, impressed by his patient's knowledge of rock n' roll and enjoying this bonding moment over their shared appreciation for one of the greatest bands in the history of music.

In fact, the doctor remembered that he had liked this patient from yesterday, that they had enjoyed this same kind of casual conversation while he had completed the physicals for Dean and his little brother.

Speaking of...

Dr. Stanley glanced at Sam and smiled at the kid staring back at him.

The polite 12-year old tried to smile back but swallowed hard instead, looking like he wanted to throw up.

Dr. Stanley felt a twinge of sympathy for the anxious kid and watched as he edged impossibly closer to his big brother.

Dean's response was instant and natural, slipping his arm around Sam and rubbing the kid's back, giving comfort and encouragement without saying a word.

Sam swallowed again and relaxed beneath Dean's soothing touch, sagging a little against Dean as he sat beside his brother.

Dr. Stanley smiled at the sweet interaction and remembered this from yesterday as well – this amazing relationship between big brother and little brother.

The doctor's smile lingered. "How 'bout you?" he asked Dean, continuing their conversation. "What's your favorite Zeppelin song?"

"It's always been a tie," Dean informed, having never been able to choose between the two songs. "Either 'Ramble On' or – "

" – 'Traveling Riverside Blues'."

Dean glanced at Sam as his little brother named the second song, touched that the 12-year old knew.

But then again, _of course_ Sam knew.

Sam knew everything about Dean the same as Dean knew everything about Sam.

That's how they worked.

That's how they always had each other's backs.

That's how they were always incredibly in sync with each other.

Because they both knew each other so damn well.

Dean smiled, feeling a swell of love for the kid leaning against him. "That's right."

Dr. Stanley nodded. "I can see the dilemma," he commented about making a choice between those two classics, and then focused on Sam, including the kid in their conversation. "How 'bout you, buddy? You got a favorite Zeppelin song?"

Sam shifted in his chair, seeming surprised and uncomfortable that the doctor was now speaking directly to him.

Dr. Stanley waited, staring at the 12-year old.

Sam shrugged. "Not really," he answered and glanced at Dean for rescue.

Because he didn't want to be rude...but he also didn't want to talk.

Dean smiled at his shy little brother and again rubbed the kid's back. "Sammy's more of a Queen man," he told the doctor. "Aren't ya, Sammy?" he asked and winked at Sam as the 12-year old's eyes widened in embarrassment at the reveal of his favorite band.

Dr. Stanley chuckled at the kid's response. "Another great band," he commented and nodded that he was serious as Sam glanced at him. "There's not another song in the world quite like 'Fat-Bottomed Girls'."

"Got that right," Dean agreed and nudged Sam's shoulder at the mention of the kid's favorite song.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's teasing and then winced when doing so made pain flare across his forehead.

Dean frowned at his squinting little brother, reminded that Sam wasn't being quiet and shy just because he was nervous about their clinic visit...but because the kid didn't feel well, either.

And suddenly Dean was back on mission – getting Sam home and settled being the big brother's only focus.

Because discussing Zeppelin songs had been a nice distraction, but that's not why they were here. They were here for Dean's additional testing, and they needed to move on with it.

Still standing in the middle of the exam room, Dr. Stanley watched the brothers, seeming to sense the subtle change in his patient and noticing Dean's attention shift exclusively to Sam.

The doctor's attention did the same – taking in the kid's pale skin, lethargic posture, and pinched expression.

The symptoms were nonspecific but when paired with Sam's obvious anxiety...

"Stress-induced migraine?" Dr. Stanley ventured, watching as Dean began rubbing the back of Sam's neck. His fingers gently massaging the muscles where the tension was undoubtedly causing the headache.

Dean glanced at the doctor. "It's not a migraine..."

"... _yet_ ," Dr. Stanley finished in unison with Dean and nodded at what that word implied – that the migraine was slowly building...and the sooner he got these brothers out of the clinic and headed home, the better.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, following the doctor's line of thinking and glad they were on the same page. "So if we could get this going..."

"Absolutely," Dr. Stanley replied. "But first..."

He glanced over his shoulder at his nurse. Patricia having been silently standing by this entire time, watching and listening but never intruding.

...which was just one reason why he appreciated her...why they made such an awesome team...why he was glad he had followed his instinct and had chosen her as his nurse instead of some young, hot chick fresh out of nursing school.

Because experience and heart were what mattered to him, not looks and sex appeal.

Dr. Stanley would happily continue to endure his friends' jabs about having a nurse who was old enough to be his mother while those friends flirted and cavorted with their younger nurses. After all, he already tolerated their ribbing about passing up multiple opportunities to escape this town and be a big-shot doctor.

But he knew where he belonged...and the kids in front of him only confirmed that.

Because Dr. Stanley believed he had caught Dean's condition early enough to be successfully treated, which meant Dean's prognosis for a full recovery and a long life was excellent.

And that prognosis not only affected Dean, but it affected Sam, too.

Dr. Stanley smiled, thankful he could go to sleep at night knowing he had saved a big brother...and in doing so, had saved a little brother as well.

It was a good feeling. A feeling worth sticking around this small town and working with an older nurse.

Dr. Stanley continued to smile at his inner dialogue and then focused on Patricia who was still patiently waiting for his orders.

"Trish..."

Patricia felt her heart flutter at the nickname.

Because no one – not even her husband – ever called her that. And whenever Dr. Stanley did, she felt at least 20 years younger.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Let's hook these boys up with some meds. Maybe some of those samples of the prescription-strength Tylenol. I think we have some for kids."

Patricia nodded. "We do. And it's already done," she reported, having known the doctor would want to relieve Sam's pain as much as she did. "I gave them several samples and advised about dosing and proper hydration. And _rest..._ " she added, glancing at Dean since she had forgotten to say that earlier. "Make sure he rests."

"He will," Dean assured – because his kid was going to bed when they returned to the motel whether he wanted to or not.

Sam sighed.

"Good. Sometimes that helps most of all," Patricia confided and then glanced at her boss.

Dr. Stanley slowly shook his head in awe, always surprised – even after all these years of working together – when his nurse was two steps ahead of him.

The doctor glanced back at the brothers.

"She reads my charts _and_ my mind," he told them and then winked at Patricia, wondering if she enjoyed their banter as much as he did. "That's my girl."

Patricia rolled her eyes even as her heart swelled at the endearing praise. "Well, _somebody's_ gotta keep you straight..." she commented and smiled.

"Amen to that," Dr. Stanley agreed. "Only one day you might put me out of a job," he predicted since Patricia was always so thorough.

The nurse shook her head. "Doubt it."

Because Dr. Stanley was irreplaceable...and the clinic knew it, which was why the Board of Directors were so indulgent of the doctor's whims and "free spirit tendencies" – like wearing jeans and boots and faded rock band t-shirts to work.

But that was all part of Dr. Stanley's charm, and Patricia would have him no other way.

The nurse smiled as he crossed to the counter, setting down Dean's chart and glancing at the surgical tray before nodding his approval as he checked for everything he would need to complete the upcoming procedure.

The doctor glanced at Patricia as she now stood beside him and tilted his head toward the tray, keeping his voice quiet. "Did you mention..."

Patricia nodded, confirming she had mentioned the possibility of a biopsy to Dean. "But only briefly over the phone."

Dr. Stanley returned the nod. "I'll explain more," he assured the nurse and glanced over his shoulder at his patient.

Dean stared straight back, the teen knowing what was coming even without the doctor's explanation.

And he was prepared to face it.

 _Don't look away._

The sudden echo of John's voice was unwelcome, yet Dean couldn't shake it.

 _If something comes for you, you look straight at it. Whatever it is...the good, the bad...hell, even the unknown. You look at it. Look everything in the eye._

Whether it was a supernatural creature, a drunk father, or a medical diagnosis.

 _Don't look away._

Dean clenched his jaw at the memory of that advice and continued to stare at the doctor.

Sam's legs were once again swinging back and forth. The kid's anxiety over the unknown increasing by the second.

The doctor sighed.

It was time to get down to business.

"Again, sorry to keep you waiting," Dr. Stanley apologized about how long the brothers had been sitting alone in the exam room prior to now. "But we've been busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest," he explained and then chuckled at his own joke.

Sam blinked at the comparison.

Dean twitched a smile.

Patricia shook her head.

There was never a dull moment working with Dr. Stanley.

"Anyway..." the doctor continued, sliding over the surgical tray and opening Dean's chart. "I appreciate you coming back to the clinic on such short notice, especially since..."

Dr. Stanley stopped talking as he stood at the counter scanning the contents of Dean's chart, shuffling papers and then nodding as he read.

"Ah, yes..." he commented, his finger sliding over the notes he had written during Dean's visit yesterday and tapping one word in particular.

The doctor glanced over his shoulder once again, narrowing his eyes as he focused on the left side of Dean's neck.

Patricia did the same.

Sam glanced at his brother.

What were they staring at?

Dean arched an eyebrow at their scrutiny. "What?"

"Hard to say just yet," Dr. Stanley replied. "But I noticed an enlarged lymph node yesterday on the left side of your neck. I didn't think much of it since you seemed relatively healthy and didn't present with any other symptoms or concerns."

Dean nodded. "But..."

"But after reviewing your blood work from yesterday...and then again after today's draw...I think maybe there _are_ some concerns," Dr. Stanley concluded, turning back to study the lab reports in Dean's chart. "Your high white count is certainly concerning, especially since today's counts are slightly higher than yesterday's." He paused, flipping to another page in the chart. "Such extreme numbers in this range are usually a clear indication of a serious infection. And if the numbers are climbing, then...well..."

The brothers could draw their own conclusions.

Sam's eyes widened at the phrase _serious infection_ being used in relation to his brother.

Because people _died_ from serious infections.

It happened all the time.

Their dad and Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim and Caleb – they had all talked about other hunters and people they knew dying of serious infections.

And now _Dean_ had a serious infection?

An infection the doctor had just implied was worsening by the day.

Sam swallowed, scared and confused.

Because Dean hadn't been sick or injured.

So...

Sam swallowed again, glancing at Dean.

Dean frowned, also confused. "But I feel fine."

Dr. Stanley nodded at his patient's declaration of good health. "I don't doubt that," he replied, still browsing through Dean's chart. "As counterintuitive as it may seem, not all infections make you feel like crap. Not at first. Not in their earliest stages. You might just feel tired."

Dean nodded.

Because yeah, he felt tired – so what?

His life was tiring.

Taking care of his little brother...doing weekly battle with John over the phone...hustling money...researching cases...saving people, hunting things.

It was draining and exhausting and yeah – he was tired.

Dr. Stanley stared at Dean. "Are you nodding yes...or are you just nodding?"

Because sometimes patients just nodded as they absorbed information.

Dean snorted at the clarification. "Yes," he confirmed. "I've felt tired lately. Really tired."

"Really?" Sam whispered, because Dean hadn't mentioned it, hadn't seemed any different.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. But it's okay."

Because it wasn't the kid's job to worry about Dean – it was _Dean's_ job to worry about Sam.

And if Sam was okay, then everything else was okay, too...including this.

This would be okay.

Sam looked doubtful.

Dr. Stanley kept his poker face firmly in place. "How long?"

"How long have I been really tired?"

The doctor nodded.

Dean shrugged. He hadn't exactly been keeping a diary about it. "I don't know. Maybe a few months?"

Probably since John had left, maybe a few weeks before.

"Any other symptoms?"

"Not that I know of," Dean reported and rubbed Sam's back. His kid becoming even more tense at the leading questions.

Dr. Stanley nodded again. "Well, there may be other symptoms undetected thus far since the disease is most likely in its early stages."

Dean blinked. "Disease?" he repeated and felt his stomach twist.

Because wow. Holy shit.

Thanks for keeping it real, Doctor.

But that was a little too real, too quick.

"Oh my god..." Sam whispered in reaction to that word and leaned closer to his brother, practically in Dean's lap at this point.

Dean glanced at the trembling kid beside him. "It's okay, Sammy," he soothed, continuing to rub his brother's back.

Because this was the kind of news to push the 12-year old right over the edge into full migraine mode.

Dr. Stanley watched the brothers, seeing the guarded concern on Dean's face and the open panic on Sam's.

"I know this sounds serious and scary," he sympathized. "And it definitely has the potential to be. But early detection is the key to successful treatment, which is why I had Patricia call you back in here today for more blood work and a possible biopsy. Better safe than sorry, right?"

"Right," Dean agreed, his heart pounding in his chest...and his little brother once again clinging to his arm.

Sam's fingers digging into Dean's wrist at the word _biopsy_.

The kid literally scared speechless.

Dean's hand continued to rub back and forth, back and forth.

 _It's okay._

"And this is just a precautionary question, but have you taken any medications today that could prolong bleeding?" Dr. Stanley checked. "Aspirin, ibuprofen..."

Dean shook his head.

"Okay, good..." the doctor commented and then explained further. "This biopsy isn't exactly major surgery, but I still prefer my patients to not have that type of medication in their systems. I don't usually have any problems with controlling the bleeding during these procedures, but again...better safe than sorry."

Dean nodded and felt Sam's grip tighten even more around his wrist as the kid interpreted this conversation to mean that Dean could bleed to death on the exam table.

 _But no, Sam. No._

That was not a risk.

Not today.

 _Relax.  
_

Dr. Stanley smiled his encouragement. "Alright. Well, let's get started. I remember the enlarged node being close to the skin's surface, and my notes confirm that. So, this really shouldn't take long. If you'll just hop up here..."

Dean nodded as the doctor gestured to the exam table...even as he felt detached from the entire situation, as if this was a dream.

But it wasn't.

This was happening.

Ready or not...

Dean swallowed and glanced at Sam.

The kid blinked back at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"It's okay," Dean soothed once more and squeezed the 12-year old's hand in reassurance before easing out of Sam's grip and standing to cross the room.

Patricia smiled as he approached. "Please remove your shirt," she told Dean, always hating how cougarish she sounded whenever she gave that direction to patients Dean's age.

Dean nodded and did as he was told, taking off his black t-shirt and tossing it to join the plaid shirt and leather jacket resting in his chair beside Sam.

"And maybe take this off, too..." she suggested, indicating the amulet around Dean's neck.

Dean nodded again, then hesitated as her words sunk in – because he _never_ took off the amulet.

He even showered and slept in the damn thing.

But...

"Yeah, sure," Dean finally replied and lifted the amulet over his head, realizing its black leather cord would be in the way as the doctor completed the examination and biopsy.

And while Dean didn't want to take it off, he also knew he would be _pissed_ if something happened to it during the procedure, so...

Sam watched his brother as Dean turned back to him, dangling the amulet between them.

"Don't lose it," Dean teased the 12-year old as he dropped the necklace into Sam's hand. The cord coiling around the gold charm as it rested in the kid's palm. "Someone special gave it to me."

The unexpected sappy comment startled a laugh out of Sam and he smiled up at his big brother, looking like he wanted to cry.

Dean winked at him. "It's okay."

...which were two words Dean could already tell he would be saying a lot to his brother over the next few days.

Hell, those were two words Dean needed to hear as well.

 _It's okay._

No matter how scary this situation seemed right now, everything was going to be okay.

"Just hang tight, huh?" Dean urged his brother. "This will be over before you know it, and then we'll go home."

Sam nodded, the gesture shaky and uncertain.

But Sam was trying to be brave and strong for Dean, and Dean loved the kid all the more for it.

Dean sighed and ruffled Sam's hair before turning away from his little brother. Once again approaching the exam table and then easing himself up. The white paper covering the metal surface crinkling beneath him.

Dr. Stanley wasted no time reaching for the left side of Dean's neck, tilting his patient's head back as his fingers palpated the area closest to the collarbone.

Barely a second passed.

"Yep," the doctor confirmed as the large marble-sized lump rolled under his fingers. "There it is," he announced and then pressed hard against the enlarged lymph node. "Does that hurt?"

"No."

Dr. Stanley nodded at the expected answer but said nothing as he continued his examination. His fingers systematically inching in a tight circle as they moved away from the swollen node and searched for others.

Seconds passed.

Footsteps became louder and then faded down the hall.

The phone at the receptionist desk rang again.

Sam's chair squeaked as he continued to swing his legs back and forth.

Dean stared at the ceiling and quirked an affectionate smile at the sound of his nervous kid.

A few more seconds passed.

Dr. Stanley lowered his hands from Dean's neck and allowed the teen to straighten his head. "Arms up, please."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the order but did as he was told, lifting his arms and frowning as the doctor repeated the same slow, careful examination inch-by-inch around his armpits.

It was weird.

Dean sighed and glanced across the room to check on Sam.

The 12-year old blinked back at him, tracking the doctor's every move and seeming more concerned by the second.

Dean shook his head and smiled.

 _It's okay._

Patricia smiled as well as she watched Dean and Sam, fascinated by their silent interaction and touched that Dean kept reassuring his little brother.

"Okay, arms down..." Dr. Stanley instructed and then paused.

Dean lowered his arms, narrowing his eyes at the doctor's hesitant expression. "What?"

Dr. Stanley chuckled, because patients – especially teenagers – were usually embarrassed by this next question. "Have you noticed any swelling or enlarged lymph nodes in your groin?"

Dean blinked and then pulled a face. "Dude..."

Dr. Stanley chuckled again at his patient's response. "I know," he agreed. "But I have to ask. It's important." He paused once more. "So...have you?"

Dean cringed at the repeated question. "Um...no."

"You're sure? Because now is not the time for modesty."

"I'm not being modest," Dean assured, amused at that word being used to describe him. "And yeah, I'm sure."

Dr. Stanley nodded. "Good," he responded and then reached once more for Dean's neck, pressing against the lump he would soon biopsy.

Dean tolerated the prolonged examination even as he could feel his patience beginning to thin. "Are you almost done?"

"Yep. Done," the doctor announced, removing his hands from Dean's neck and turning to jot notes in his patient's chart.

Dean waited.

Sam did not.

"So..." the 12-year old prompted about the doctor's findings.

Dean smiled at Sam's tone. The kid's anxiety making him pushy.

Dr. Stanley glanced at Dean's little brother and smiled as well. "So..." he repeated. "Good news."

Sam's expression brightened. "Really?"

"Really," the doctor confirmed and returned his attention to Dean. "I don't feel any other enlarged nodes besides the one in your neck, which means there's an excellent chance this hasn't spread yet."

Dean nodded – because that certainly _sounded_ like good news – and glanced across the room to once again check on Sam.

The 12-year old stared back.

Dean's gaze lingered on his brother before refocusing on the doctor as he asked the inevitable.

" _What_ hasn't spread yet?"

Dr. Stanley paused and glanced at Patricia.

Because this was often a tricky question to navigate.

If a patient was going to freak out, it would usually happen in response to this word – the one that was abbreviated in the margins of Dean's chart with a question mark behind it.

 _CA?_

Because yeah, this might be cancer...or it might be something else...or it might be nothing.

That's why Dr. Stanley had called Dean back to the clinic for additional testing – for more specific blood work and a biopsy...and then tomorrow, a chest x-ray and a CT scan.

Because the combined results of those tests would confirm a diagnosis, would help determine whether the _CA_ could be erased from Dean's chart...or if only the question mark could be erased.

Dr. Stanley sighed, realizing he had been silent too long.

Still sitting on the exam table, Dean stared at him. The teen suspicious of whatever the doctor was hiding.

" _What_ hasn't spread yet?" Dean repeated.

Dr. Stanley once again hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Dean's little brother as Sam now sat on the edge of his seat. The kid's eyes impossibly wider and more scared than before.

Because Sam was only 12-years old, but he had heard enough bad news in his lifetime to know when someone was stalling in delivering it.

So did Dean.

And Dr. Stanley was stalling.

Dean's heart pounded in his chest at the realization that whatever the doctor suspected, he didn't want to say it in front of Sam.

It was _that_ bad.

Well, fuck.

Dean exhaled a slow, deliberate breath.

"Maybe Sam should – "

" – no," Dean interrupted and shook his head, knowing the doctor was about to suggest that Sam leave the exam room. "Thanks," he offered, appreciating the man's attempt to shield his little brother. "But Sam doesn't leave my sight," the big brother informed, his cool tone settling that issue.

Dr. Stanley nodded, reminded of how protective his patient was of his little brother. "Got it," he told Dean and prepared to shoot straight, sensing Dean respected that approach more than this tiptoeing around the proverbial elephant in the room.

Dean nodded as well, confirming that hunch. "Let's hear it."

"Well, all of this is only speculation right now..." Dr. Stanley prefaced. "But I guess my first question to you before we go any further is whether or not there's a history of cancer in your family?"

Dean blinked, having expected to hear that word based on the doctor's earlier behavior...but feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach now that he had actually _heard_ it.

Because cancer?

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

People _died_ of cancer.

They got sick and weak and wasted away to nothing and fucking _died_.

And Dean didn't have time for that shit – _none_ of it.

Who would take care of Sam if Dean was sick?

Who would look after his little brother if Dean died?

And family history?

 _What_ family history?

Dean knew nothing of his grandparents or of anybody else beyond his parents...and he barely knew anything about them, especially as it related to their medical history.

Mary had been in the hospital at least twice to give birth to Dean and Sam, but had she ever been hospitalized for anything else?

Dean had no clue.

John didn't exactly discuss those details.

Hell, most days, John could barely even say Mary's name.

And John...

Dean knew his dad's medical history as it related to illnesses contracted on the road and injuries sustained in hunts...but otherwise?

Dean had no idea.

And he definitely had no idea about anybody else who shared their bloodline.

A family history of cancer?

The doctor's guess was as good as Dean's.

And why was the doctor even asking about that anyway?

Unless he suspected that _Dean_ had cancer and was trying to establish a pattern, a possible history of this disease spreading throughout their family tree and now coming to roost inside of Dean.

Dean swallowed – overwhelmed and scared and worried and _pissed_.

Him with cancer? No fucking way.

"Oh my god..." Sam whispered, had been initially too stunned to speak but was now reacting to his worst nightmare – something being wrong with Dean.

Only it was even worse than Sam had imagined.

Cancer.

People _died_ of cancer.

...which meant if Dean had cancer, then...then Dean was going to die?

Sam couldn't bring himself to ask, couldn't say the words out loud.

But he could feel himself shaking. His head pounding. His chest sore from how hard his heart was beating. His throat tight from the knot of emotion too thick to swallow.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to throw up.

And his body seemed confused about which it wanted to do first.

Sam closed his eyes.

Cancer.

The unshed tears stung.

 _No._

 _Please._

Anything but that.

Anyone but Dean.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

Dean's focus shifted to his panicked little brother. The kid understandably _freaking the fuck out_ at the mention of the "C" word.

In fact, Dean could see Sam shaking from across the room.

And that was all it took for him to push aside his own worry and fear, and focus entirely on Sam – transforming from patient to big brother in three...two...

"Sammy..." Dean called, keeping his voice calm as he slid off the exam table.

Sam opened his eyes, staring at Dean as he approached and knelt in front of him.

Dean held his gaze. His little brother's knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping the arms of the chair. His tears only a blink away from rolling down his cheeks.

"Dean..."

Sam sounded so heartbroken, so scared.

Dean couldn't take it. He sighed and reached for his kid. "C'mere..."

Sam leaned forward, reaching back. The 12-year old seeking the security of his big brother in the face of devastating news.

 _Cancer._

The word looped in Sam's mind, making his head throb and his stomach churn.

Dean held his brother close as the kid took a shuddering breath. His heart twisting the way it always did when Sam was upset.

And it didn't help that his little brother's nerves had already been on edge, that Sam had been anxious since they had left the motel earlier. Now the mother of all bombshells had been dropped, and the kid was on the verge of tears – his emotions more vulnerable than usual from stress and fatigue and feeling like crap.

Dean sighed again and rubbed Sam's trembling back. "Hey. Listen..." he began, easing his brother away and holding him at arm's length. "Relax, huh? He didn't say I _had_ cancer," the big brother pointed out, referring to the doctor's earlier question and using semantics to his advantage. "He was just asking if we had a _family history_ of cancer. Big difference, dude."

And in theory, that was true.

But in reality, Dean knew the doctor was asking about their family history only because he suspected Dean had cancer.

There was no other reason to ask.

...which meant it was just a matter of time before the diagnosis was confirmed.

Or maybe disproved.

 _Maybe_.

But probably not.

Dean swallowed, suddenly dreading the results of the biopsy even more than the biopsy itself.

Because right now he could distract Sam with wording and soothe his little brother with the possibility that everything was fine.

But what the fuck was Dean going to do if days from now Dr. Stanley announced with undeniable certainty that Dean had cancer?

How would Sam react then?

How would _Dean_ react?

What the fuck were they going to do?

 _What the fuck were they going to do?_

Dean didn't know.

And he didn't want to think about it...but he couldn't _stop_ thinking about it.

His mind buzzed as his heart pounded.

Sam stared at him, those tears still threatening to fall.

Dr. Stanley watched the brothers and glanced at his nurse.

Patricia tilted her head toward the boys, urging the doctor to _do something_.

Dr. Stanley nodded his agreement, deciding to follow Dean's lead.

"Your brother's right," he told Sam, doing his part to help calm Dean's little brother. "I was asking about a family history of cancer, not diagnosing it."

...though Dr. Stanley's gut told him it was only a matter of time before that was exactly what he would be doing, was exactly the news he would be delivering – that Dean had cancer.

But that was another day and another time that would be determined by the test results.

Right now, it was only a suspicion.

Sam's gaze flickered between Dean and Dr. Stanley, processing the distinction between the actual question and his automatic assumption.

Dean smiled as he felt some of the tension melt from Sam's shoulders.

Sam sighed and offered a fragile smile in return to his brother, still feeling like he could cry but trying to keep it together for Dean...because he knew Dean was keeping it together for him.

"Sorry."

Dean shook his head at Sam's shy apology, knowing the kid was embarrassed for causing a scene and for once again violating the "no freaking out" rule Dean had established before they had left the motel.

But this situation was the exception to that rule.

Because hearing the word _cancer_ was scary as shit, especially when you were 12-years old...and especially when it was used in possible relation to your big brother.

Dean swallowed, hoping he was never confronted with the reverse scenario – that he would never hear that word in the same sentence as Sam's name.

If Dean had cancer, that would suck.

But Dean preferred _that_ over Sam having cancer, over anything being wrong with Sam.

Dean gave his brother a once-over at the thought and noticed Sam was still holding the amulet, was rubbing his thumb over the cord as if he was drawing reassurance from the ugly thing – that old Christmas gift having always symbolized their bond.

Dean twitched a smile at his sweet kid and squeezed Sam's shoulders before standing, putting on his t-shirt, and settling back in his chair.

Dr. Stanley shook his head at Dean getting dressed, at the change of his patient's location. "Well, actually if you could just..."

His voice trailed off as Dean pinned him with a hard stare.

"You know what...never mind," the doctor dismissed, watching as Dean wrapped his arm around his brother. "Where you're at is fine for now."

"Good," Dean remarked, because he had no intention of moving.

Dr. Stanley nodded and offered a tight smile.

And Dean recognized the slight annoyance behind the expression – knew Dr. Stanley wasn't finished with his examination and still had questions to ask before he began the biopsy. Knew the doctor wanted him back on the exam table.

But Dean also knew Sam would respond better to whatever else was said if he was beside him. The big brother knowing his little brother not only needed him...but needed him _close_.

And there was nothing Dean put in front of Sam.

Not even himself.

Sam was Dean's priority...and everything else could fuck off.

Dr. Stanley was beginning to realize that.

And so was his nurse.

They exchanged glances while Dean continued to rub his little brother's back, the repetitive motion as soothing to him as it was to Sam.

The doctor cleared his throat. "So...back to my question...do you know if there's a family history?"

Dean was thankful the doctor didn't repeat the "C" word since Sam was relatively calm again, sitting as close as he possibly could and tucked under the safety of his big brother's arm.

"No," Dean replied. "No clue."

"Okay." Dr. Stanley jotted notes in Dean's chart. "That's fine. Sometimes a family history is an accurate indicator and sometimes it's not. Truthfully, the best indicator, the best place to start with confirming a diagnosis is completing this biopsy."

Dean glanced at the counter as the doctor gestured toward the surgical tray.

"Will it hurt him?"

Dean smiled at the sound of Sam's quiet voice and rubbed his thumb over the kid's bony shoulder – touched that out of everything they had to worry about, his little brother was worried about the procedure hurting Dean.

This sweet, _sweet_ kid...

God, Dean loved him.

And there was no way he was dying and leaving his kid alone.

 _You hear that, cancer?_

 _Fuck you._

Dean clenched his jaw, determined to beat a disease he didn't even know if he had yet, and glanced at his brother as Sam called his name.

"I'll be fine, Sammy," Dean assured, not liking the way the 12-year old was squinting at him. The kid's headache undoubtedly at least a six or seven by now with the words _disease_ and _cancer_ and _biopsy_ being thrown around.

"He's right," Dr. Stanley added and reached for the bottle of local anesthetic along with the syringe...and then smiled when both appeared in his hand, compliments of Patricia.

The nurse smiled back.

"Always reading my mind..." Dr. Stanley commented and nodded his thanks before turning back to the brothers sitting side-by-side.

Dean looking tired and overwhelmed while Sam looked scared to death.

Dr. Stanley felt a twinge of sympathy for both of them and then paused, reminded that they were just kids – kids who were facing a potentially huge, life-changing diagnosis alone.

And not only that, but Dean was about to undergo a medical procedure without parental permission.

The doctor frowned, turning back to Dean's chart and scanning the case history form, then nodding as he confirmed their mother was deceased but their father...

"Where's your dad?"

Because now that the doctor thought about, he also realized their dad hadn't accompanied the brothers for their physicals yesterday, either.

...which was another possible legal issue. But one problem at a time.

Dean blinked at the unexpected question about John's location. "Who knows?"

And who gave a shit?

The second question as clear as if Dean had actually said it.

Dr. Stanley arched an eyebrow, startled by the venom in Dean's voice, by the unmistakable hostility.

The doctor glanced at Patricia. The nurse as disturbed as he was by the idea that these two boys sitting in front of them were alone.

"You don't know?"

Dean looked bored. "Nope. Don't know, don't care."

In fact, the only thing Dean cared about in relation to John was keeping him away from Sam.

Because their dad had hit the kid before...so, who was to say he wouldn't hit the kid again?

Dean couldn't take that chance.

His trust in John was gone, and Dean didn't know how their dad could ever gain it back.

Dean sighed as the doctor continued to stare at him. "What?"

Dr. Stanley shook his head. "Nothing," he replied even as he continued to frown at Dean's blunt tone, sensing there was a complicated, rocky past between father and sons...or least between father and _oldest_ son.

As for the youngest...

The doctor glanced at Sam to gauge the 12-year old's reaction at the mention of their dad – also sensing that whatever the rift was between their father and Dean, Sam was probably at the center of it.

Because Dr. Stanley had been on the receiving end of Dean's fierce protectiveness over his little brother, and if their dad had in any way threatened Sam...

Of course, this was all just speculation.

Dr. Stanley didn't know this family and none of this was his business.

But...

He glanced at Patricia, his nurse looking concerned but interested in the brothers' backstory as well. Both doctor and nurse feeling strangely attached and involved with these two kids they had only met twice.

Dr. Stanley refocused on Sam, wondering about the kid's reaction to his and Dean's absent father.

But Sam only blinked back, his expression unreadable...at least in relation to whatever happened between the brothers and their dad.

The only thing obvious about the 12-year old was how much pain he was in. The kid squinting and swallowing and rubbing the side of his head like he could rub away the throbbing.

"Are you okay?"

"No, he's not."

Dean answered the doctor's question before Sam could respond, having already noticed the signs of his brother's headache worsening.

First it was the stress of returning to the clinic...then the stress of _disease_ and _cancer_ and _biopsy..._ and now the stress of talking about John.

It was too much.

And Dean was officially done with this shit. Was over playing nice and entertaining the doctor's seemingly endless Q&A session. Was ready to go home and take his little brother with him.

"His head hurts," Dean reminded the doctor and nurse, holding his kid a little closer to his side. "And being here is making it worse. So if you could get on with this..."

Because seriously...less talking, more _doing_.

Jesus...

Dr. Stanley nodded as Dean gestured to the syringe and anesthetic he still held. "Of course," he replied about proceeding with the biopsy, feeling a bit unnerved by Dean's aggressive impatience and dreading this next part.

The doctor paused.

Dean narrowed his eyes, holding the man's gaze. "What?"

"We're going to need parental permission before we can – "

" – why?" Dean interrupted, pissed at the implication he couldn't do anything without John's permission.

Fuck that.

Dr. Stanley blinked at the renewed hostility in Dean's voice, in his whole demeanor.

"Well..." he began and glanced at his nurse for help.

Because sometimes Patricia was better at handling these situations since she had raised three boys of her own.

Patricia nodded at the doctor, accepting his request for assistance, and focused on their patient. Her expression a mixture of sadness and compassion as she seemed to understand why Dean was suddenly lashing out.

Because it was hard to carry the world on your shoulders when you were still only a kid yourself – to face a potentially life-threatening diagnosis while maintaining a strong exterior and a brave face.

It was hard to always take care of your little brother, no matter how much you loved him.

It was hard to part ways with your dad, no matter how much it was necessary.

It was hard.

Days like this were hard.

 _Life_ was hard.

And these two boys seemed to be facing it alone.

 _No. Not alone_ , Patricia was reminded as she stared at the brothers. _Together._

The nurse smiled at the thought.

"It's okay," she soothed and nodded at Dean when he looked at her. "We know this has been a rough afternoon for you and Sam. And we know all of this is stressful."

Dean said nothing as he watched her, sensing he was being handled and was not impressed by what he perceived as empty words.

Patricia paused, respecting how easily Dean had just read her and deciding to switch tactics – to not approach this situation as a nurse talking to her teenaged patient but to abandon the rehearsed words and instead talk as one caretaker to another.

Because Dean would respect _that_ , would respond to that.

Patricia sighed. "Listen, I know you have other things on your mind right now." She slid a meaningful glance over to Sam, then focused again on Dean, seeing the big brother nod. "And I know this is frustrating, all of these hoops to jump through and questions to answer. But it's all important. It's all part of our job."

Dr. Stanley arched an eyebrow as he listened to his nurse ramble, urging her to spit out whatever point she was trying to make.

Patricia sighed again. "I guess what I'm trying to say is...we're going to take care of this..." she told Dean and motioned to the surgical tray, referring to the biopsy. "...so you can go home and take care of what's important to you."

Dean glanced at his brother as Sam continued to lean against him and then glanced back at the nurse, appreciating her realization of _his_ job.

Patricia nodded and smiled, suddenly feeling like she was talking to another mom – bonding over the shared knowledge of what it was like to be worried about a sick child, to not have any concern for yourself because you were solely focused on protecting your child, on making your child feel better.

It was incredibly sweet and heartbreaking for this big brother to feel that way about his little brother, and it only increased the nurse's curiosity about what had happened between these boys and their dad.

Where was the man? And how could he leave these kids alone?

It was no wonder these brothers were so close.

All they had was each other.

Dr. Stanley cleared his throat, attracting his nurse's attention to get her back on track.

Patricia nodded, corralling her thoughts and refocusing on her task of tackling the issue of parental permission.

A topic that was touchy not only because of the brothers' absent father but because Dean obviously viewed _himself_ as the parent – _that's_ how long the teen had been responsible for himself and for his little brother.

Patricia shook her head, freshly irritated with the boys' dad.

"Anyway...like I said, I know you're frustrated," the nurse told Dean, because that was also obvious from the way he continued to stare at her. "But we're just trying to get our paperwork in order before we move forward. And since you're a minor – "

" – no, I'm not," Dean corrected, his tone confident even as he lied.

But this was a familiar lie.

Patricia blinked at Dean's words and exchanged glances with Dr. Stanley.

"You're not a minor?"

Dean shook his head at the doctor's question. "No," he replied and felt Sam shift beside him, his brother knowing that wasn't true.

The kid always worried that Dean would get caught lying...just like the kid always worried about Dean getting caught stealing.

Dean rubbed Sam's back.

 _Relax. I've got this._

Because Dean had been adjusting his birthdate for years, had thankfully always looked older than he was and had been passing for 18 since he had turned 15 – a practice that had actually been encouraged by John.

Dean clenched his jaw, bitter at the reminder of how their dad had always seized any opportunity to place more responsibility on him.

"Huh..." Dr. Stanley mused, scattering Dean's thoughts and looking confused at this recent revelation about his patient's age.

The doctor glanced at his nurse and turned back to Dean's chart.

Barely a second passed.

"Oh..." Dr. Stanley commented and nodded at the date of birth printed above his finger on the patient intake form. "I see now. Eighteen just yesterday..."

Dean nodded, though he actually had another year before that was true.

Still, on paper, he was 18 and could consent to this biopsy...and that's what mattered.

Fuck John.

They didn't need him.

Dean and Sam had each other, and they would figure out the rest – even if that included facing a cancer diagnosis.

Dean swallowed at the possibility.

"Well, I feel like a jackass," Dr. Stanley announced, referring to his assumption that Dean was still a minor and causing unnecessary drama. "I apologize."

Patricia nodded. "We _both_ apologize," she added and then smiled at their patient as she sensed the earlier tension between them begin to fade. "And Happy Birthday a day late."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Thanks."

...though with the exception of dinner last night and Sam's gift, this was turning out to be a really sucky birthday week.

Sam sighed and leaned his head against his brother's shoulder. The kid having been quiet and disengaged in the conversation until now.

"Dean..."

"I know, Sammy," Dean soothed, glancing at the kid sitting beside him and not needing Sam to tell him that he felt like his head was going to explode. "We're almost done. Close your eyes."

Because blocking out the constant glare of the fluorescent lights overhead would help decrease the pain throbbing in Sam's temple and across his forehead.

Sam swallowed and closed his eyes.

Dean rubbed his thumb over the 12-year old's shoulder and then glanced at the doctor.

"Get on with it."

Dr. Stanley nodded at the growled order, understanding the big brother's renewed urgency to complete the biopsy. "Yes. But first..."

Patricia stepped forward with a clipboard and a pen, having removed both from one of the drawers. "Please initial here...sign here...and then date here..." she told Dean, pointing at each blank line. "This is explaining potential risks associated with any procedure of this nature and also giving us permission to – "

" – yeah, yeah," Dean interrupted, not wanting to be an ass about this...but whatever.

He and Sam had been at the clinic for what seemed like forever.

They had taken several vials of Dean's blood.

The word _cancer_ had been mentioned as a possible diagnosis for whatever was wrong with Dean.

And now a biopsy was the cherry on top.

Fine.

Just do the damn thing, so Dean could leave and take his brother home before the kid either threw up from his building migraine or was so overwhelmed by pain that he couldn't stand.

Dean sighed and kept his arm around Sam as he accepted the pen from Patricia, quickly initialing and signing and dating.

"Good," the nurse praised and scanned the form, double-checking its accuracy. She glanced at the doctor. "We're good."

Dr. Stanley nodded at his nurse as he finished washing his hands. "Great," he replied, gloving up and then holding the bottle of anesthetic at eye level, sliding the syringe's needle into the tiny hole at the top and drawing out the clear liquid.

Dean watched and then glanced at Sam. The kid breathing fast and shallow as pain throbbed in his left temple, perfectly matching his racing pulse. In fact, Dean could feel the kid's pounding heartbeat as Sam continued to lean against him with his eyes closed, blocking out the exam room lights.

Dean frowned at his stressed little brother and rubbed Sam's arm soothingly before refocusing on the doctor as he approached with the needle.

"This will sting for a second."

Dean sighed and tilted his head back, briefly closing his eyes and concentrating on not flinching, on not jarring Sam.

And the big brother was successful, remaining absolutely still as the doctor pulled down the collar of his t-shirt and injected him once...twice...three times with the local anesthetic, effectively surrounding the enlarged lymph node and numbing the future surgical site.

"Alright. There we go..." Dr. Stanley announced after the third shot. "How does it feel?"

Dean opened his eyes and straightened his head. "Fine," he reported to the doctor and then glanced at Sam, smiling at the kid who was now staring back at him. "I'm fine, Sammy," he assured and patted the 12-year old's shoulder.

"Good," Dr. Stanley replied, exchanging the used syringe for a second one that was pre-filled with another clear liquid. "Now this is a dose of adrenaline to induce vasoconstriction and help reduce bleeding during surgery."

The needle pricked Dean's skin.

"Should take just a couple of minutes for the anesthetic to fully kick in, and then we'll move forward with the procedure."

Dean nodded at the doctor, watching as he washed his hands again while Patricia disposed of the used syringes and anesthesia bottle before doing the same.

"While we're waiting..." Dr. Stanley began, drying his hands and then reaching for Dean's chart. "I want to discuss possible symptoms again. Have you had any high, unexplained temperatures lately? Or night sweats? Or any unplanned, unexplained weight loss?"

Dean frowned at the specific questions, once again suspecting the doctor was already assigning a diagnosis.

Dr. Stanley waited.

"No," Dean responded and shook his head, noticing the left side of his neck was already beginning to feel numb.

"Nothing like that?" Dr. Stanley pressed. "Especially the night sweats or weight loss?"

"No," Dean repeated and watched as the doctor jotted more notes.

"Have you had a cough? Or have you experienced trouble breathing, especially when you're lying down?"

"No."

"Any pain in your chest? Especially behind your sternum..." Dr. Stanley gestured to his breast bone. "Any pain at all?"

Dean scowled.

Did the doctor think the cancer was in his fucking _chest_?

Not that Dean officially had cancer, but shit...

The doctor waited.

Dean shook his head. "No. Nothing like that."

Dr. Stanley nodded and made the note in Dean's chart.

Sam shifted anxiously beside his brother. "That's good, right?"

Dr. Stanley smiled at the quiet voice of Dean's little brother. "That's _very_ good," he assured and glanced at Patricia.

The nurse nodded her agreement – no B symptoms and no indication there were enlarged lymph nodes in Dean's chest just waiting to be discovered being a _very_ good sign indeed.

Sam swallowed and glanced at Dean.

Dean rubbed the kid's shoulder.

A few seconds passed.

"How's your neck?" Dr. Stanley asked, setting Dean's chart back on the counter behind him and approaching his patient. "Are you numb yet?"

"I think so," Dean reported, again angling his head for the doctor to examine the area.

"You feel that?"

"No," Dean replied and then amended his statement. "I mean...I feel you pressing, but I don't feel pain or anything. You know?"

"Yes," Dr. Stanley confirmed. "Good."

He paused, staring at the future surgical site.

"Given the location of the mass, I will try to hide the scar by making my incision in the lower skin crease," Dr. Stanley explained, lightly running his finger across Dean's neck to indicate the crease.

Dean snorted, not particularly fussy about such things. "That's fine, but it doesn't matter. Scars are badass."

Dr. Stanley chuckled at his patient's statement, recalling the scars he had seen on the teen's body yesterday as he had completed Dean's physical...and freshly wondering what the hell Dean did in his spare time to have acquired such a variety of scars before the age of 20.

It was just another layer of mystery.

There was a beat of silence.

"Alright..." Dr. Stanley began and glanced at his nurse. "Trish..."

Patricia nodded, already gloved up and ready to proceed with the biopsy.

Dr. Stanley smiled at her and then refocused on the brothers, his gaze flickering between them. "Um..."

He paused, unsure how the protective big brother would respond to the news that he needed to leave Sam and return to the exam table across the room.

Dean twitched a smile at the doctor's hesitancy, always amused when adults seemed wary of him. "I know," he commented, indeed knowing it was time to separate.

And Sam knew it, too.

But the kid didn't budge.

Dean sighed. "Sammy..."

Sam glanced at his brother before focusing on the doctor.

Dr. Stanley blinked, a bit startled by the 12-year old's intense gaze. "What?"

Sam needed no further prompting to fire away.

"You promise it won't hurt him, right?"

Dr. Stanley smiled at this sweet kid staring at him with those big eyes, touched that Sam was so concerned about anything hurting his brother.

"I promise."

Sam nodded. "And you promise you know what you're doing?"

Dr. Stanley chuckled, cutting his eyes at his nurse as she did the same, and then glanced at Dean. "I think you might have a lawyer on your hands," he predicted, suddenly feeling as though he was being grilled on the stand.

"Do you promise?" Sam persisted.

The doctor nodded. "Yes. I promise I know what I'm doing."

"How many of these have you done?"

Dr. Stanley arched an eyebrow at the continued interrogation, impressed by the previously quiet, sluggish kid who had apparently been re-energized by this mission to complete an impromptu check of his credentials before the doctor sliced into the kid's big brother.

"How many?" Sam repeated.

"How many biopsies?"

Sam nodded.

Dr. Stanley shrugged, realizing he had never been directly asked that. "Well, I don't know the exact number. But it's too many to count, that's for sure."

"And they were all successful?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes as if he was searching for any signs to indicate the doctor was being dishonest in his answers. "You didn't hurt anybody?"

The doctor shook his head. "Nope. Everybody's fine." He paused, smiling at the worried kid who was seeking reassurance. "And I promise your brother will be fine, too."

But as for what the biopsy would reveal, Dr. Stanley could offer no promises.

He sighed and then smiled as Dean's little brother continued to stare at him.

"How about – "

" – alright, Sammy..." Dean interrupted with a smile of his own, amused but always touched when he was reminded that Sam was as protective of him as he was of Sam.

That was love.

That was family.

That was Dean and his kid standing together against the world.

Dean's smiled lingered. "Ease up, huh?

Sam scowled at the mild reprimand, wincing only slightly as the expression caused fresh pain to flare behind his eyes. "But – "

Dean shook his head at his tenacious little brother. "No buts," he told Sam, even as he was encouraged by the kid's brief burst of energy and determination. "How 'bout you and Dr. Stanley go to separate corners?" he suggested, teasing the 12-year old about his relentless questions as though Sam had gone several rounds with the doctor in the boxing ring...and had won.

Sam quirked a smile, hearing the affection and pride in Dean's voice. "Yeah, okay," he agreed before Dean could say anything more and pushed away from his brother.

"Hey. Whoa. Be careful," Dean warned as Sam pitched forward under a sudden wave of dizziness.

Patricia gasped.

Dr. Stanley reached out, stopping when Dean shook his head.

Because Dean was already on this – one hand splayed in the middle of Sam's chest while the other rubbed his back, supporting his little brother until the kid regained his bearings. Sam's headaches sometimes making him dizzy, especially when abruptly changing positions

"Sammy. You good?"

Sam braced himself – one hand resting on Dean's knee, the other gripping the chair's arm.

"Sammy..."

"M'good," Sam replied and felt Dean's hands guide him upright until he was sitting back in the chair.

He blinked at his brother.

"Still good?" Dean checked, his hands hovering.

Sam nodded – slow and careful – and swallowed.

Dean arched an eyebrow, sensing bullshit but not calling Sam on it. He sighed and patted his brother's chest.

"I'll be right over there if you need me."

"Okay."

"Okay," Dean repeated and gave his brother another once-over, noticing his kid was still grasping the amulet.

Dean smiled and stood, once again removing his t-shirt and crossing to sit on the exam table. His gaze lingering on Sam as he made sure the kid was settled before turning his attention to the nurse as she approached.

"If you'll just lie down..." Patricia instructed, gesturing behind Dean.

Dean checked once more on Sam before leaning back and situating himself. The white paper crinkling...the metal surface cold against his bare back...the pillow thin and flat under his head.

Dean exhaled a slow breath, feeling his heart begin to hammer in his chest and adrenaline pulse through his system in anticipation of what was about to happen.

"You okay?"

Dean smiled at his brother's voice. "Yeah," he answered, hating how hoarse and shaky his own voice sounded. He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he repeated and hoped he was more convincing.

Dean glanced at Patricia as she covered his chest and shoulders with light blue surgical drapes to isolate the intended biopsy site.

She smiled. "This will be over soon."

Dean nodded and stared at the ceiling, listening to the water splash in the sink as Dr. Stanley scrubbed his hands...and hearing the squeak of Sam's chair as the kid was once again nervously swinging his legs while they waited for the procedure to begin.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	6. Chapter 6

It was strange to know you were being cut and to feel the pressure of the blade as its sharp edge glided through your skin...but not feel any resulting pain. No white-hot burn of tingling nerves, no throbbing to accompany the blood welling between the folds of sliced flesh.

Dean couldn't even feel the texture of the gauze Patricia used to dab away the blood – could only feel the nurse pressing against his neck, her touch light but firm.

It was strange.

Hunters rarely enjoyed the luxury of local anesthetics but instead usually felt every slice and stitch. Would close their eyes and clench their jaws and refuse to make a sound as they were patched up and put back together in the backseat of a muscle car...or in a cheap motel or an abandoned cabin or wherever they happened to be in the aftermath of a hunt gone wrong.

Would listen to hissed curses and soft reassurances – and sometimes even the quiet sniffles of a scared kid who had witnessed it all.

Would endure the rough touch of callused hands and the searing sting of holy water and whiskey poured in an open wound with a hope and a prayer that the unlikely combination of purity and alcohol would be enough to ward off supernatural infection.

It was all just part of the life, part of the family business that Dean had learned to accept along with everything else.

So, this sterile, quiet, _painless_ experience was strange.

Dean sighed as Patricia once again pressed gauze against his neck.

Patricia smiled down at her patient, noticing Dean watching her as he continued to lay on his back on the exam table.

"You're doing good."

Dean snorted at the nurse's praise – because all he was doing was laying there...but thanks.

Patricia shook her head, seeming to read Dean's thoughts.

"You would be amazed how many patients _don't_ just lay here."

The stories she could tell...

Dr. Stanley chuckled. "She's right," he agreed, having stories of his own. "Some patients need a mild sedative to get through this, but you're doing great."

Dean snorted again.

Because if they knew the stories _he_ could tell, then they would realize this biopsy was nothing. Dean had endured worse under worse conditions, which made this minor surgery barely even a blip on his radar...except for what its results might reveal in the coming days.

 _Cancer._

Dean swallowed as the word echoed in his mind.

The one word out of all words that had never even _crossed_ his mind until today.

The one word that had the power to change absolutely everything.

 _Cancer._

Dean swallowed again and tried to focus on the doctor's voice.

"I stretched the skin tight in order to facilitate a neat incision," Dr. Stanley reported, always explaining to his patients what was being done as he operated. "This will help reduce scarring."

Dean shrugged with one shoulder at the repeated mention of that issue, because really...he didn't care about that.

Dr. Stanley smiled, amused by his patient's indifference. "I know. 'Scars are badass'," he quoted Dean from earlier. "But they're also a reflection of my surgical skills, so I'd rather you not have one from this procedure."

Dean considered that logic, unexpectedly relating to it – like not leaving a trace after a salt and burn reflected _his_ skills as a hunter.

The same concept applied here.

It made sense.

"Fair enough," Dean finally agreed.

Dr. Stanley's smile lingered as he nodded at his patient. "Good." He paused before resuming his report. "Okay, so...the incision is dry and mostly bloodless due to the adrenaline injection you received after the local. And less blood to deal with reduces risks to you while also making my job easier."

"And mine..." Patricia added, again gently dabbing away only a few spots of blood at the edge of the incision in Dean's neck.

Dr. Stanley nodded his agreement as he waited for his nurse to complete her task.

"Since I estimate the enlarged lymph node to be about three centimeters in diameter, I've made a five centimeter incision through the epidermis and dermis," he told Dean. "And now I'm going to cut through the platysma muscle..."

"...which is a superficial muscle that overlaps the sternocleidomastoid."

Dr. Stanley glanced across the exam table, arching an eyebrow at his nurse and her big fancy words.

"Showoff..." he teased, even as this was part of their routine.

Patricia smiled but said nothing, thankful they had always worked as a proverbial tag team – with Dr. Stanley providing general information and then allowing her to fill the gaps with specifics, so he could concentrate more fully on the surgery instead of detailed explanations.

It was just one more reason why Patricia respected him – because _he_ respected her and her knowledge instead of dismissing her as so many other young doctors tended to do with their nurses.

Dr. Stanley winked at Patricia and shook his head fondly before continuing with the procedure, slicing slightly deeper into Dean's neck with his scalpel.

Dean felt nothing but the increased pressure needed to penetrate the muscle, its fiber being tougher than his skin.

"Under this muscle is where I'll search for the mass in the subcutaneous fat while remaining mindful of the spinal accessory nerve and the greater auricular nerve..."

"...which supply motor fibers to surrounding muscles and receive sensation from the skin below your ears," Patricia informed.

Dean blinked up at the nurse. "Okay..." he drawled, momentarily overwhelmed by information and terminology and wondering why these people couldn't speak plain.

Patricia smiled at her patient, sensing his annoyance. "Sorry. Sometimes we like to impress ourselves with our medical jargon," she confided, her tone good-naturedly self-deprecating as she glanced at Dr. Stanley, including him in their apology.

The doctor nodded. "And sometimes we just like to hear ourselves talk no matter _what_ we're saying," he added and shook his head at how true that seemed before offering an appropriately rueful smile.

Dean twitched a smile of his own and felt himself relax a bit more, appreciating a nurse and doctor who knew not to take themselves too seriously.

"Long story, short – the biopsy is going well," Dr. Stanley summarized and narrowed his eyes as he focused on the enlarged, slightly discolored lymph node now peeking out between the folds of sliced tissue within his patient's neck. "You just need to keep still."

"Just like you're doing."

"Got it," Dean assured Patricia and then frowned at the sudden realization that he could no longer hear Sam's chair squeaking across the exam room.

That actually it had been _several minutes_ since he had heard any sound from his little brother.

Dean's frown deepened, his heart instantly beating faster as he realized his kid was quiet... _too quiet_. The 12-year old having been silent since the doctor had made the initial incision in Dean's neck, and Dean having been so distracted by the procedure that he hadn't even noticed Sam's silence until now.

Dean inwardly cringed, feeling a sharp stab of guilt at his uncharacteristic inattention to his little brother.

But big brother was back on duty now.

"Sammy..." Dean called on instinct, barely resisting the panicked urge to sit up and see the kid for himself...but then feeling a wave of relief as Sam answered him.

"Yeah..."

Dean's smile returned at the quiet voice. The relief as real as if he was actually looking at his brother instead of still laying on his back on the exam table.

"How you doin' over there, kiddo?" Dean asked, unable to see Sam from this angle with the doctor blocking his view.

Sam didn't respond.

But Dean didn't need him to since the big brother had heard the fear and anxiety and pain in the kid's soft, strained voice only seconds before; knew Sam was unusually quiet because the 12-year old was tense and scared and concentrating on not throwing up from the pounding in his head.

Dean sighed. "Sammy. Talk to me. You okay?"

And wasn't that just like Sam's big brother to check on him?

Wasn't that just like Dean to worry about Sam when _Dean_ was the one whose neck was sliced open? When _Dean_ was the one undergoing a biopsy. When _Dean_ was the one who might have cancer...

Sam blinked against the sting of tears, feeling loved and protected and _so damn scared_.

Because nothing could happen to Dean.

Anything could happen to anyone else... _but nothing could happen to Dean_.

Especially not _cancer_.

People _died_ from cancer.

And what if Dean died? Then what?

Sam swallowed and exhaled a shaky breath, wishing his heartbeat would stop throbbing in his temples.

Dean stared at the ceiling and listened to his little brother sitting across the room, sensing his kid was upset and on the verge of tears.

That's what happened when Sam spent too much time inside his head obsessing over worst-case scenarios

Dean sighed.

"Sammy..."

"I'm okay," Sam finally replied, the last word wavering on a hitched breath.

And yeah, that was convincing.

Dean pulled a face before glancing at Patricia, not surprised to see her staring straight back at him. The nurse having silently observed the brothers' interaction and seeming to understand that Dean was now asking her to be his eyes in this situation.

Because hearing Sam wasn't enough – Dean needed to _see_ him.

And if Dr. Stanley wasn't currently playing hide-and-seek inside his freakin' _neck_ , then Dean would sit up and see the kid himself.

But...

Patricia nodded, easily following Dean's nonverbal explanation and feeling honored he would ask for her help since in the short time she had known them, it was obvious that Sam was everything to his big brother. And Patricia knew it was rare for Dean to ask for anyone's assistance in taking care of the kid.

But he was asking her now.

Patricia smiled her gratitude of Dean's trust and glanced over her shoulder.

Sam blinked back at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears and squinting with pain. Dean's little brother noticeably paler than before and looking exhausted. His expression pinched as he sat in the chair across the room – one small hand clutching the amulet while the other fisted the leather jacket he had pulled over from Dean's chair.

The kid obviously overwhelmed by anxiety and seeking comfort in anything that belonged to his big brother.

It was somehow both sweet and sad.

Patricia swallowed against the emotions that swelled in her chest, surprised by the urge to hug this kid, to hold him close and tell him everything was going to be okay.

 _Everything..._ including his big brother.

But the truth was...

Patricia sighed, stopping herself from completing that thought with the reminder that nothing was conclusive until the biopsy was complete and the lab results were back.

They were still days away from an official diagnosis, and she refused to allow her mind to wander into the dark abyss of _what if_.

Nothing good ever came of that.

The scared kid staring back at her from across the room only proved it as Sam had clearly convinced himself to expect the worse.

Patricia swallowed as something twisted in her chest for this sweet child clinging to his big brother's jacket, trying to be as brave and strong as the guy who wore it, trying to be as brave and strong as his hero...as brave and strong as _Dean_.

The nurse blinked against unexpected tears and shifted where she stood beside the exam table, feeling Dean watching her and then feeling his hand wrap around her wrist.

Patricia instantly refocused on him, sensing Dean's impatience in that simple gesture and quickly offering her report about Sam.

"He's fine."

Dean arched an eyebrow, indicating he knew that was bullshit and warning against any further sugar-coating.

Patricia sighed.

"Well...he _is_ a little pale," she amended, uncomfortable with talking about Sam like he wasn't right behind her. "Paler than before," she added and then blinked at what that might imply. "Oh, no. Do you think he might get sick? Or faint? Does blood make him squeamish?"

The questions caught Dr. Stanley's attention and he paused, his hands hovering over the incision in Dean's neck as he glanced across the exam table at his nurse and then over his shoulder at Dean's little brother.

Sam shrank back in his chair under the doctor's intense gaze and held Dean's jacket closer as the nurse once again stared at him as well.

Dean scowled, knowing exactly how his brother was reacting across the room and feeling his protective streak flare. "Leave him alone," he ordered as if he was in a position to boss people around as he continued to lay on his back on the exam table.

But both doctor and nurse responded, recognizing the big brother's tone and exchanging glances with each other before directing their attention back to their patient.

"Sam's not gonna get sick or pass out," Dean assured them. "Not from this, anyway..." he added, gesturing to the incision on the left side of his neck.

Because Sam had been around blood his entire life, had seen everything from gaping, ragged wounds that gushed to deep scratches that only sluggishly oozed.

So witnessing this biopsy was nothing.

If Sam was paler than before, it wasn't because the sight of blood was making him squeamish. It was because the 12-year old was tired and stressed and on the verge of a massive migraine.

Dean sighed, freshly worried about his brother and wanting to take the kid home.

"Sammy..."

"Yeah..."

"Hang in there, kiddo…" Dean encouraged, keeping his tone light as he talked to Sam but narrowing his eyes as he held Dr. Stanley's gaze. "We're almost done here."

Dr. Stanley didn't hesitate. "Absolutely," he agreed and nodded at Dean's unspoken message before glancing at Patricia.

The nurse nodded as well and checked once more on Sam, feeling responsible for him since Dean was still stretched out on the exam table.

Across the room, Dean's little brother blinked back at her – one hand continuing to grip his brother's jacket while the other held the amulet, his thumb rubbing back and forth over its black cord.

Patricia smiled at him.

Sam tried to smile as well but wrinkled his nose and swallowed instead.

Patricia frowned, recognizing a nauseous kid when she saw one.

Dean watched the nurse, knowing Sam's condition based on her expression.

Patricia refocused on her patient. "Are you sure – "

" – yes," Dean interrupted. "I'm sure. _Migraines_ make him sick, not the sight of blood."

He paused.

"Sammy..."

"I'm okay. Just..." Sam swallowed. "Just hurry up, please."

Dean felt a twist of worry at how desperate and miserable Sam sounded but twitched a smile at his bossy yet polite little brother. The 12-year old feeling like crap and ready to leave the clinic...but also remembering his manners.

"You heard the kid," Dean remarked to the doctor and nurse staring down at him.

Patricia smiled, dabbing more blood from the incision site as Dr. Stanley resumed the biopsy.

Dean sighed, listening to Sam's chair creak as the kid shifted across the room and hoping his little brother could keep it together for just a little while longer.

"Okay. Good news..." Dr. Stanley reported to his patient after a beat of silence, his attention flickering between Dean's face and the incision on the left side of Dean's neck.

"Let's hear it," Dean replied, because he could sure use some good news right about now.

"I finally have a clear view of the mass. And it's just as I suspected in shape and location with no other surrounding structures appearing to be involved, which is a good indication that it's safe to remove."

Dean began to nod his understanding but stopped as Patricia shook her head.

"Try to keep still," the nurse reminded, once again dabbing at the blood oozing from Dean's incision.

"Yeah. Sorry," Dean commented, remembering that direction from earlier and watching as the doctor turned to reach the surgical tray on the counter behind him.

Dean knew Sam was also watching while Dr. Stanley exchanged the blood-stained scalpel for a small retractor along with a pair of curved scissors, and the big brother smiled fondly when Sam's chair started to squeak again as the kid anxiously swung his legs.

Dr. Stanley glanced at Dean's little brother. "It's okay. This won't take long," he predicted, gesturing at Dean's neck and then refocusing on his patient as he explained the next steps. "I'll just dissect a little of the subcutaneous fat in order to reach the mass by pulling back the edges of the incision and cutting around the enlarged node. Then, I'll remove it, deposit it in the container we send to the lab...and then I'll place a few sutures and you'll be all set."

Just that easy.

No big deal.

Yeah.

Sure.

Dean said nothing, vaguely wondering if this was how hunters sounded when they explained to a civilian the process of banishing a spirit.

 _I'll light these candles, draw these symbols, recite this Latin, and then you'll be all set._

No wonder most people just blinked at them with do-what-you-gotta-do expressions on their faces.

That's how Dean felt now.

Don't explain it.

Just do what you gotta do.

And hurry the hell up.

They had been at the clinic long enough, and Dean was ready to go home. But more importantly, Dean was ready to take _Sam_ home.

Dr. Stanley smiled as his patient stared up at him. "Dean..."

Dean blinked as his thoughts scattered. "Yeah?"

"If you're ready, we'll proceed with the excisional biopsy now."

"Yeah," Dean repeated. "That's fine. I'm ready."

Because what else was there to say?

 _No, never mind. I've decided I_ don't _want to know if I have cancer._

It was a tempting thought.

Ignorance was indeed bliss.

But ignorance was also potentially deadly.

Dean sighed, listening to Sam's chair continue to squeak and feeling a tug on his skin as the doctor manipulated the retractor. The blunt hook snagging one edge of his sliced flesh and gently pulling the incision in his neck wider to accommodate the curved tip of the scissors.

Dean stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the weird sensation of feeling the snip, snip, _snip_ of small scissors delicately trimming away soft tissue within the incision...but not feeling any associated pain.

Still standing beside the exam table on Dean's right side, Patricia watched her patient, impressed with how well he seemed to be tolerating the procedure.

"How do you feel?" she asked, dabbing away blood from Dean's neck and then disposing of the soiled gauze in a nearby sponge bowl. "Everything okay?"

Dean glanced at the nurse. "Yeah."

Because thanks to the three injections of local anesthesia he had received earlier, Dean didn't feel anything.

He was fine.

But if the nurse wanted to check on someone, then she needed to check on _Sam_.

And she needed to do it _now_ since the 12-year old was quiet again.

Patricia tilted her head as Dean stared at her, nodding when she realized her patient wasn't concerned about himself but about the kid sitting across the exam room.

The nurse smiled, feeling a twinge of admiration for this protective big brother, and glanced over her shoulder.

As before, Sam blinked back at her. Only now the 12-year old seemed to know Patricia was temporarily keeping guard over him under Dean's supervision until the biopsy was complete and Dean could fully resume the role.

"I'm okay," Sam announced loud enough for Dean to hear. "Are _you_ okay?"

Dean smiled as his little brother reversed the question, feeling a fresh surge of love for this sweet kid. "I'm fine, Sammy. You know I'm okay if you're okay."

Sam quirked a shy smile at the reminder before ducking his head, feeling both embarrassed and touched by his brother's worry.

"I'm okay," the 12-year old repeated.

Patricia's smile lingered, her heart swelling with love for this dimpled, floppy-haired kid she didn't even know. She refocused on Dean. "He is _such_ a cutie. And such a sweetheart, too..."

Dean chuckled at the nurse's description of his little brother, always amused that most women thought Sam was irresistibly sweet and adorable.

If they only knew...

Dean snorted at the stories he could tell of all the times Sam was _not_ so sweet and adorable.

"He makes me just want to hug him."

Dean arched an eyebrow at Patricia's confession.

"Seriously," she confirmed, still staring at Dean. "I really just want to hug him."

Dean's response was immediate the second time. "Yeah, well... _don't_."

Because while the nurse seemed nice enough, they didn't _know_ her, and Dean didn't want anyone touching his brother, especially strangers.

Patricia nodded, seeming to not only understand but to admire Dean even more. "He's lucky to have you."

"We're lucky to have _each other_ ," Dean corrected – because what would he do without Sam? – and then glanced at the doctor as he spoke.

"Trish..."

Patricia blinked, her attention instantly on her boss.

"Hold this, please."

"Of course," Patricia responded, dabbing away blood from Dean's skin before grasping the retractor's handle.

"Just like that..." Dr. Stanley instructed his nurse about keeping the incision stretched wide.

Patricia nodded.

Dr. Stanley did the same and then turned to retrieve the sample container, unscrewing its lid with one hand and giving it to Patricia before grabbing forceps from the surgical tray on the counter.

Sam watched him with wide eyes, because he knew what those were for.

This was it.

Sam swallowed.

Dr. Stanley offered a quick smile. "Almost done, buddy," he promised the nervous kid across the exam room and then refocused on his patient. "Dean..."

"I'm fine," Dean assured before he could be asked yet again how he was feeling. "Just do it, man."

Dr. Stanley nodded, appreciating Dean's attitude and wishing all patients were so laid back about surgical procedures.

"Alright. Rock on," the doctor replied and completed the biopsy with a few additional cuts. The curved scissors carefully snipping away the last tethers of soft tissue and freeing the enlarged lymph node from Dean's neck.

Dean felt the vague pop of the mass clearing the edges of his skin.

"Is it out?"

"Yep," Dr. Stanley confirmed to his patient, depositing the enlarged node into the clear sample container his nurse held.

Dean shifted his attention and stared at the bloody mass within inches of his face.

"Dude..."

Dr. Stanley chuckled. "I know," he agreed about the gross factor of such things and returned the surgical instruments to the tray on the counter behind him – the scissors and the forceps, followed by the retractor.

Patricia crossed to the counter as well, lidding the container.

"Now what?"

Dr. Stanley glanced over his shoulder at Dean's little brother. "Now I close up the incision, and you two can head home." He paused and smiled. "Sound good?"

Sam nodded and swallowed as he stared at the bloody lump resting inside the container Patricia had set on the counter.

That enlarged lymph node that had the power to change everything.

Cancer...or no cancer – which would it be?

Sam exhaled a shaky breath. "How long until we know?"

Dr. Stanley arched an eyebrow at the question, following the kid's gaze and then nodding. "Oh. Well...I'm putting a rush on it, so we'll get the lab results back quicker than usual. But even still, we're looking at least two or three days before we know anything. Maybe even longer..."

Two or three days might as well be two or three _years_.

Sam sighed. "You're sure you can't get it back faster?"

Still laying on the exam table, Dean stared at the ceiling and chuckled at his persistent little brother.

"Sammy. Don't start."

Sam scowled at the light reprimand.

Dr. Stanley shook his head. "It's okay," he replied about Sam's question. "I know waiting is the hardest part. But Patricia will call you as soon as we have the results, and we'll go from there."

Patricia nodded, once again standing beside the exam table on Dean's right side and hoping she would be calling the brothers with good news in a few days.

 _God, she hoped._

Patricia repeated that prayer in her heart as she pinched several fresh gauze pads from the top of a nearby stack and dabbed the blood from the edges of the incision in Dean's neck.

"You still doing okay?"

Dean glanced at her. "Yeah. I'm just ready to go."

Dr. Stanley nodded, understanding Dean's blunt response and impatient restlessness.

"I'm on it," the doctor assured about getting Dean and his little brother ready to head home and narrowed his eyes as he threaded the curved suture needle.

Across the room, Sam watched, still holding the amulet and fisting the leather of Dean's jacket sprawled in his lap.

Dr. Stanley glanced at the kid and smiled. "You wanna do the stitches?" he teased.

Sam shook his head. "I'm not ready yet."

Dr. Stanley chuckled.

Patricia laughed.

Dean smiled, wondering what the doctor and nurse would think of they knew Sam wasn't joking...that actually, Sam probably _could_ do the stitches.

Dean had just started teaching the 12-year old a few weeks ago, but Sam was a fast learner – always had been – and was already better at suturing than most hunters who had been doing it for years.

Dean's smile lingered, proud of his smart kid, and blinked as the doctor reentered his line of vision.

"Here we go..." Dr. Stanley announced, his hands hovering over the incision on the left side of Dean's neck with forceps and a threaded suturing needle. "I'll close the wound in layers, first by suturing the platysma muscle and the dermis with absorbable sutures, which will be absorbed by the body through the process of inflammation. And then I'll close the epidermis with more traditional, non-absorbable sutures that will need to be removed about a week from today."

"Okay," Dean commented since he was unable to nod. "Sammy can do that."

Dr. Stanley smiled at the idea of a 12-year old completing that task. "I'm sure he can," he agreed and winked at his patient, letting Dean know he was in on the joke.

But Dean only blinked because he was serious. He had taught Sam how to remove stitches long before he had started teaching the kid how to place them.

And Sam was good – was quick and careful.

Dean quirked a proud smile at his little brother's skills.

Dr. Stanley glanced at Patricia, waiting for her to dab away blood from Dean's neck before he began the suturing process. The doctor using the forceps to grasp the edge of his patient's sliced soft tissue, then piercing the flesh with the curved needle and sliding the thread through and over the wound to the opposite side. The smooth, well-practiced, back-and-forth process quickly closing the platysma muscle.

"It's very important that I bury the suture knot," Dr. Stanley commented as he worked. "Otherwise, the suture could abscess." He paused to rethread his needle before moving to the next layer of skin. "And the needle must bite just the right amount of dermis in order to obtain perfect skin apposition."

Dean sighed, already knowing all of this, thank-you-very-much.

But at least Sam was getting an impromptu refresher course.

Dean twitched a smile at the thought, listening to his brother shift in his chair across the room.

"How do you feel? Everything okay?"

Dean glanced at Patricia, both amused and annoyed that she kept asking him. "I'm fine," he told her, able to feel the tug of the sutures but unable to feel any pain since the skin around the incision in his neck was still numb.

"Good," Patricia praised and then glanced over her shoulder at Sam, figuring it was time to check on him as well.

Dean's little brother rubbed his arm across his forehead and yawned.

Patricia smiled, giving the kid a quick once-over as he yawned again.

Dean waited.

Patricia felt the big brother's gaze and wasn't surprised to see Dean staring at her when she refocused on him.

"He's okay. Just tired," she told him. "But you'll be able to see him in a minute…" she added, knowing Dean was eager to see his kid.

"Damn right," Dean agreed, appreciating the nurse keeping a check on Sam but knowing Patricia wasn't giving him the whole story.

Not that she was at fault.

Sam was only 12-years old, but he was still a Winchester and had been trained to hide any trace of pain, especially from strangers.

...which meant Patricia wasn't giving Dean the whole story because she couldn't _read_ the whole story.

Only Dean could read his little brother like a proverbial book, and he was concerned about what he would see.

How bad was Sam's headache?

What did it rank now – a nine...a ten?

How close was the kid to throwing up from the throbbing in his temples and across his forehead?

Would they at least be able to stop for takeout on the way back to the motel?

Dean sighed.

He hoped so. Because there was only junk food crap in their room and Sam needed something more substantial if he was going to keep down the prescription-strength Tylenol samples that Patricia had given Dean earlier.

"Okay..." Dr. Stanley began, snipping the thread as he finished closing the dermis and then rethreading his curved suture needle one last time. "Only the epidermis is left. And instead of using interrupted sutures as I did for the other two layers, I'll use a continuous subcuticular suturing technique, which – "

" – will close the epidermis when you pull both ends of the suture," Dean finished, familiar with the zigzag technique, and smiled as the doctor blinked his surprise. "That style of suturing, paired with the non-absorbable stitches, will cause less inflammation and scarring."

Blah, blah, blah.

Dean had read the same book...or at least one similar to it.

That's what Winchesters did – read and researched to not only survive but to improve their existing skills.

Besides, Dean had decided long ago that if he ever had to stitch Sam because of a hunt gone wrong – _please, god...no_ – then he would not scar the kid any more than he had to.

Dean had enough scars for both of them, scars seen and unseen.

He sighed, refusing to allow his mind to wander to dark places, and blinked at the nurse and doctor staring down at him.

"My goodness. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" Patricia remarked and shook her head at the wonder of her patient.

"You have no idea..." Dean responded, his words predictably vague.

"Hmm," Patricia hummed and smiled, glancing at her boss on the opposite side of the exam table.

"A guy who loves Zeppelin and knows suturing techniques..." Dr. Stanley mused as he pierced the top edge of the incision with the curved needle. "I _knew_ I liked you," he concluded, not prying as to how Dean knew what he did since experience had taught that sometimes such questions were best left alone.

Dean twitched a smile and once again stared at the ceiling, listening to his little brother yawn as the doctor completed the final stitches.

"Alright," Dr. Stanley announced, gently but firmly pulling the two ends of the suture to close the incision before knotting and cutting both ends. "All done."

"Hallelujah," Dean blurted, his dry tone matching his neutral expression.

Patricia laughed. "It looks good," she commented, both informing Dean and praising Dr. Stanley. "Very smooth line. Will hardly be noticeable in a few weeks."

Dr. Stanley nodded. "I'm pleased," he agreed, waiting for his nurse to finish dabbing away the remnants of blood from around the incision. "I'm covering this with a few steri-strips to help provide strength to the wound," he reported as he placed the adhesive strips over the incision. "And I'm also covering it with a bandage to help prevent contamination."

"Okay," Dean replied, feeling the doctor pressing against his neck but not feeling any pain or the texture of the gauze being secured to his skin with tape.

"You might want to check this before you go to bed," Dr. Stanley advised, gesturing to the bandage now covering the left side of Dean's neck. "But don't be alarmed if there's a little blood on the gauze or around the incision. That's normal. Just clean it and reapply a bandage. Then maybe check it again in the morning and – "

" – I got it," Dean interrupted, because seriously...he knew how to handle wound care.

No need to waste more time discussing that when Dean just wanted to sit up, collect his little brother, and go the fuck home.

Dr. Stanley arched an eyebrow but smiled. "Okay..." he allowed, intrigued and somewhat impressed by his patient's medical knowledge.

Was their dad a medic, maybe?

It was possible.

Then again, it seemed like _anything_ was possible with these two brothers.

So much mystery surrounding them, yet such likeable kids.

Dr. Stanley sighed. "Well, if you don't have any questions, you're all set," he told Dean. "Do you need help sitting up, or have you got that, too?"

Patricia removed the light blue surgical drapes that covered Dean's chest and shoulders and glanced at the doctor as if they both didn't already know their patient's answer to that question.

As expected, Dean sat up on his own, swinging his legs over the side of the exam table, his gaze instantly finding his little brother.

Across the room, Sam stared back.

Dean smiled at the sight, the big brother feeling a fresh wave of relief at actually _seeing_ his kid.

 _There you are, Sammy._

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	7. Chapter 7

"Be careful," Patricia warned as Dean eased off the exam table and stood. "Sometimes patients get dizzy after these procedures. The rush of adrenaline makes them a bit shaky, and they need to sit a little while longer."

She paused, her gaze sweeping her patient from head to toe and then back again, searching for any sign of physical distress.

"Do _you_ need to sit a little while longer?" she asked, though she saw nothing to indicate Dean was wobbly. "Because there's no shame in that if you do," she assured. "Most patients need to sit a little while longer."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the well-meaning but rambling nurse hovering behind him. "Most patients aren't me."

Patricia twitched a smile at the cocky response. "True," she agreed and didn't doubt that Dean was fine.

But she had seen too many patients face-plant to allow the issue to drop so easily.

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

Dean glanced at Patricia's hands on either side of his body. Her fingers within inches of his arms as though she expected she would need to grab him any second to brace his fall. He sighed, because really...this was ridiculous.

"Maybe sit for just a minute?"

"No," Dean replied, blunt and done, appreciating the nurse's concern but feeling increasingly irritated at being coddled after such a simple surgical procedure.

Not to mention this back-and-forth routine was undoubtedly only making Sam more nervous.

Dean could hear the kid shifting in his chair across the room and wasn't surprised when Sam called his name. He turned at the sound of his brother's quiet voice and smiled. "It's okay, Sammy. I'm fine," he soothed his anxious kid and then cut his eyes at Patricia, pinning her with a hard stare.

Because as Dean had suspected, the nurse was not only annoying him but was also upsetting Sam, which meant this conversation was officially over.

Patricia nodded her understanding. "Sorry," she apologized after a beat of silence and lowered her arms, giving Dean his space. "I'm just a worrier."

Dean snorted at the understatement but said nothing. A slight buzz humming through his body but otherwise feeling steady as he moved away from the exam table and crossed the room.

Patricia watched him go, sighing as she came to stand beside Dr. Stanley at the counter.

"Trish..." the doctor began, removing his gloves and folding them inside each other before tossing them in the trash. "You do that every time," he admonished, keeping his voice low so only Patricia heard. "You should know by now to relax. If patients say they're fine, then they're fine...especially this one. I'm sure he's survived worse."

The doctor had seen the scars on Dean's body that testified to that, had seen the scars during yesterday's physical exam that implied Dean likely had years of experience not only enduring pain but riding the wave of more intense adrenaline crashes than he might be feeling now.

"I know," Patricia agreed about her tendency to be overbearing and too persistent in checking on patients after surgery. "I just want him to be okay."

"He _is_ okay," Dr. Stanley assured, glancing over his shoulder at his patient while scrubbing his hands beneath the flow of water now gushing from the sink's faucet.

Patricia glanced at Dean as well.

"There's nothing to worry about today," Dr. Stanley soothed, refocusing on his nurse standing within inches of him. "Today Dean is fine."

The doctor paused, snatching several paper towels from the dispenser on the wall and stepping aside to allow his nurse to dispose of her gloves and wash up.

"But if you want to worry about something..." Dr. Stanley continued as Patricia began scrubbing her hands, directing his attention to the sample container on the nearby surgical tray. "...then worry about the results we'll be discussing in a few days."

Patricia swallowed at the ominous statement, her gaze following the doctor's to the biopsied tissue. The inside of the container bloody and fogged with moisture from the warmth of the mass freshly cut from Dean's neck.

The nurse swallowed again, knowing that biopsy was exactly where her worry belonged, where her _prayers_ belonged.

Because although nothing was conclusive until the lab results were back, both she and Dr. Stanley knew what they were dealing with, knew what the enlarged lymph node would confirm.

After all, this was not their first day on the job.

They had seen these symptoms before, had removed similar enlarged nodes before, had delivered bad news before.

Cancer.

More specifically, Hodgkin's lymphoma.

We're terribly sorry.

Patricia exhaled a shaky breath, turning off the faucet with her elbow and shaking her dripping hands over the sink before grabbing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser.

"Maybe not..." she hoped aloud, her voice muffled by the rustling paper towels as she dried her hands.

Head now bent over Dean's chart, Dr. Stanley glanced up and arched an eyebrow at his nurse.

"Maybe not," Patricia repeated, tossing the damp paper towels into the trash and waiting for the doctor to agree with her, to agree this biopsy would not diagnose cancer.

Maybe not this time.

Dr. Stanley sighed, hating it when Patricia looked at him like that, hating it when he knew what she wasn't ready to accept.

So he compromised.

"Maybe not," he allowed, though his tone was doubtful. "If you still believe in miracles..."

Patricia held the doctor's gaze. "I do," she confirmed. "But more importantly, I believe in _you_ ," she told him. "And I believe you caught this early enough to make a difference...early enough for treatment, if it comes to that. You always do."

Dr. Stanley nodded, accepting her compliments. "Guess we'll see."

Patricia returned the nod. "Guess we will," she agreed and then glanced at their patient across the room.

Dean could feel her watching him, could hear Patricia and Dr. Stanley move around the exam room behind him. Their murmured words mingling with the clank of metal as they arranged surgical instruments on the tray. Both doctor and nurse cleaning up from the biopsy and then consulting over Dean's chart.

But Dean ignored them, knowing they were intentionally whispering to keep their conversation out of earshot but not having the energy or desire to eavesdrop.

Because Dean's focus was trained on one thing – his little brother.

Dean hadn't seen the kid in at least 20 minutes and gave Sam a once-over. The big brother noticing Sam's rigid posture as the 12-year old sat in the chair against the wall and swallowed – taking in Sam's tense expression, his pale skin but flushed cheeks, his eyes squinted and pinched in pain.

 _Fine, my ass..._ Dean silently bitched about Patricia's earlier report regarding Sam's condition, because the kid was obviously a mess. Sam was maintaining a brave front and would never complain but was probably about ten minutes away from losing the battle with his throbbing head and churning stomach.

The lights too bright, the sounds too loud, the stress too much – the slow-build of pulsing pain becoming too overwhelming, too quickly.

Dean sighed, freshly worried about his sick little brother and determined to get Sam the hell out of here.

"Ready to head home, Sammy?" he asked, smiling down at his brother and feeling a familiar warmth of affection for this kid gripping the amulet like a rosary in one hand while clinging to Dean's leather jacket with the other.

"When he's scared, he wraps himself in you," Mary had told a four-year old Dean one stormy night when nothing would soothe a fussy baby Sammy except being held by his big brother.

Dean had looked up at his mom as the thunder had rumbled loud enough to shake the house. "How do you know?" he had whispered as he had sat beside her on the floor in the darkness of their living room.

One candle between them having cast eerie shadows on the walls. The power having been lost in the summer storm. John having been stuck in town working late at the garage and a four-year old child having not understood why Mary had insisted they sit inside a circle of salt until the storm was over or until Daddy got home...whichever happened first.

"How do you know?" Dean had repeated as his mother had stared at the clock on the opposite wall, both checking the time and checking that it still ticked.

The lightning had chased after the thunder, had split the sky with a jagged crack and had flashed through the windows as Mary had blinked, had gathered herself and had smiled down at her four-year old.

"Look at him," she had told Dean as her oldest had rested against her. His small back leaning into her chest as he had continued to hold Sammy, the baby no longer crying but sleeping soundly.

Dean had glanced down at his brother. "Wow..." he had commented. "How did I do that?"

Mary had laughed at the wonder in Dean's voice, her four-year old mystified as to how he had gotten his baby brother to stop crying without doing anything more than holding him.

"It's big brother magic," the young mother had told her oldest as the thunder had rumbled again.

Dean's eyes had widened before he had smiled. "I'm awesome," he had declared and had wrapped his arms tighter around the warm bundle of baby Sammy as the infant had snuggled closer.

Mary had laughed once more. "Yes, you are, sweetheart," she had agreed. "You're an awesome big brother, and Sammy feels safe with you," she had assured Dean. "You take care of him. You make him feel better."

"So do you," Dean had countered, had glanced back at his mom to make sure she wasn't selling herself short of awesomeness.

Mary had smiled. "Yes. But it's different," she had replied. "The bond between brothers is different."

Dean had nodded as though he had understood.

Mary had sighed, had sounded tired and sad as she had brushed Dean's bangs from his eyes, had kissed his forehead before rubbing her baby's back.

Sam had stirred beneath her touch, had nuzzled into Dean's neck as his tiny hand had fisted the four-year old's Batman pajama top.

Dean had beamed at the baby's affectionate gesture. "Did you see that?"

Mary's smile had returned. "Mmhmm," she had hummed. "Your little brother loves you."

"And I love him," Dean had proclaimed with all of the sincerity a four-year old's heart could hold.

Mary had blinked against tears, had known her boys would always have each other even if they didn't always have her.

There had been silence after that.

The storm had slowly died – the thunder quieting, the lightning dimming, the clouds dispersing.

The lights had flickered on. The candle had been extinguished. And the circle of salt had disappeared in the whirl of the vacuum.

"Our secret," Mary had whispered to her four-year old with a conspiratorial wink, and Dean had nodded.

John had finally come home.

And everything had seemed okay.

But Mary's words had often echoed in Dean's mind.

 _When he's scared, he wraps himself in you._

That had remained true over the years, and even now, it seemed that was still true about Dean's little brother – because Sam's small hand was wrapped around the amulet while Dean's leather jacket practically covered the kid like a blanket.

 _When he's scared, he wraps himself in you._

Dean smiled – god, he loved this kid – and then sighed as he realized Sam hadn't answered his earlier question. "Sammy. You ready to head home?"

Sam swallowed before nodding, the motion slow and careful, then lifted his arm to his forehead, shielding his sensitive eyes from the bright lights of the exam room as he looked up at Dean.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the concern clearly clouding Sam's expression. "What?"

"You _are_ okay, right?" Sam asked, the 12-year old glancing at the nurse behind Dean and then back at his brother. "Your neck is okay, and you're not dizzy...right?"

Dean felt his own expression darken, further annoyed that Patricia's earlier harping on that issue had made Sam even more anxious.

"Right?" Sam persisted, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the amulet's black cord. "You're okay?"

Dean sighed at his worried little brother. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm _fine_ ," he repeated, wondering how many times he needed to say that before everyone finally chilled the fuck out.

He had undergone a biopsy, not brain surgery.

Jesus...

Dean sighed once more.

Sam stared at him with those squinted eyes and then nodded, lowering his arm from his forehead. "Okay," he returned, releasing his grip on the sleeve of Dean's jacket long enough to reach for Dean's black t-shirt still crumpled in the chair beside him.

Dean accepted his shirt from Sam, shaking out the wadded fabric before stretching it wide and slipping it over his head, being careful not to let the collar rub the bandage on his neck.

Sam continued to stare at him. "Does it hurt?"

"Not yet," Dean replied, passing his arms through the shirt's sleeves and knowing he would indeed feel pain at the incision site as the local anesthetic wore off.

...which meant Sam wouldn't be the only one taking those free samples of prescription-strength Tylenol after dinner and turning in early.

Dean sighed at the thought, already looking forward to a hot meal and a warm bed.

"But right now, it doesn't hurt...right?"

Dean quirked a smile at Sam's question, his earlier annoyance melting at the reminder that his little brother was only worried about him, just like Dean was worried about Sam.

That's what brothers did – they worried about each other.

They loved each other.

 _Because_ they loved each other, they worried about each other.

And because they worried, they asked questions.

 _Lots_ of questions...over and over.

Dean's smile lingered, his kid making him feel sappy.

"Dean..."

"No, Sammy. Right now it doesn't hurt. I'm fine," Dean assured and further situated his t-shirt, smoothing his hand down the wrinkled fabric covering his chest and then focusing on his brother.

Sam blinked up at him, pale and squinting and swallowing hard.

Dean frowned, deciding it was time for _him_ to do the questioning. "How 'bout you, kiddo?" the big brother asked, even as he further assessed Sam's condition for himself. "How do you feel?"

Because Sam certainly _looked_ like crap.

Sam shrugged, ever the stoic Winchester even at 12-years old.

But Sam wasn't as good at that routine as he thought he was.

"Sammy..."

"I'm okay," Sam answered, because compared to what Dean had just gone through, he really couldn't complain. "You're the one with stitches in your neck."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the comment, knowing Sam's thoughts and hoping the kid knew this was not a competition.

And even if it was, Dean couldn't feel pain right now...and Sam could.

So, Sam won.

Dean sighed. "Yeah," he agreed about the stitches hiding under the gauze bandage taped to the left side of his neck. "But _you're_ the one with the migraine, Sammy," the big brother countered, slipping his hand beneath Sam's bangs to confirm what he suspected.

Sam didn't resist the mother-hen gesture but instead briefly closed his eyes, soaking in the refreshing coolness of Dean's palm pressed against his overly warm skin.

Dean shook his head as his kid wilted beneath his touch, knowing a low-grade fever was just par for the course when Sam had a migraine...but shit.

How long had Sam been nursing this?

Dean takes his eyes off his little brother for 20 minutes, and the kid spikes a fever?

"That sounds about right..." he muttered about Sam's tendency to go from bad to worse in a short span of time and then sighed. "Sammy. Look at me…" he ordered, his hand still resting on the kid's forehead and holding those floppy bangs out of Sam's eyes.

Sam did as he was told, blinking up at Dean with slightly dilated pupils.

"That's what I thought," Dean commented about the second tell-tale sign of Sam's head hurting worse than the kid was admitting.

There was a pause.

Sam continued to stare up at his big brother.

Dean continued his silent assessment of the kid's condition. "You know I can read you, right?"

Better than anyone...even a nurse who had official medical training but had previously reported that Sam was fine, just tired.

Dean shook his head, still annoyed by that bullshit.

Because the kid he was looking at was more than just tired.

Dean's little brother clearly didn't feel well, and it was his mission to fix that, to make it better.

"Sammy..."

Sam quirked a shy smile and nodded. "I know," he replied about Dean always being able to read him, to know what was wrong even without Sam saying it.

Dean nodded as well, letting his hand slip from beneath Sam's bangs. "Good. So how 'bout you cut this brave little soldier crap and tell me how you feel."

Sam swallowed. "Like my head's gonna explode and I'm gonna throw up," he admitted with no further prompting and then swallowed again. "I just don't know which is gonna happen first."

Dean cringed at the visual. "Neither," he promised. "Because we're going home. C'mon. Stand up."

Sam wrinkled his nose as if just the idea of moving made him want to hurl.

Dean shook his head. "You'll be fine. C'mon..." he repeated and reached for his brother, shoving his leather jacket from the kid's lap to the neighboring chair and then fisting Sam's sweatshirt, carefully pulling the 12-year old to his feet.

"Leaving so soon?"

Dean snorted at the question behind him. "Yeah," he replied but didn't turn to further acknowledge that Patricia had spoken, having heard the nurse's teasing tone but not interested in reciprocating as he kept his focus solely on the wobbly kid in front of him.

Sam breathed through his mouth, his firm grip on Dean's forearm speaking louder than words. His fingers desperately digging into Dean's skin as he swallowed.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean soothed, waiting for his brother to find his balance and overcome the wave of nausea. "I've got you. Just ride it out..."

Sam closed his eyes, the bright fluorescent lights overhead and the spinning exam room doing nothing to ease his dizziness or calm his stomach. The 12-year old's head pounded with his heartbeat. The pain throbbing behind his eyes, causing the lidded darkness to pulse as well.

Sam swallowed yet again.

Dean continued to wait, his thumb rubbing back and forth over Sam's wrist, rhythmic and calming and familiar to both of them.

Seconds passed before the tension in Sam's body began to ease and he released a shaky breath.

"There you go, Sammy..." Dean murmured, encouraging his sick little brother even as he recognized the subtle signs of the worst having passed, at least for now.

"Oh my goodness," Patricia commented as though she had just realized Sam was on the verge of throwing up. "Is he okay?"

Dean clenched his jaw at the stupid question, knowing the nurse meant well but damn... _shut up_.

Wasn't it obvious Sam was _not_ okay? That the kid was trying to go to his happy place to prevent himself from puking on the exam room floor?

Dean exhaled a deliberate breath as Patricia called his name and then cut his eyes at the nurse as she was suddenly beside them, her gaze flickering between him and Sam.

"Is he okay?"

Dean glared at the repeated question, a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue when Sam spoke first.

"M'okay," the 12-year old replied, opening his eyes and squinting up at Dean.

A pale and shaky and slurry Sam clearly lying for the sake of persuading his big brother to play nice and not drop the f-bomb on a well-meaning nurse.

Dean twitched a smile at the kid who knew him too well and then glanced at Patricia as she spoke again.

"Are you sure, sweetie?" she asked Sam and reached to grasp the 12-year old's shoulder. "Because you look a little – "

" – don't touch him. He's fine," Dean interrupted, blocking the nurse's reach and then once again glaring at her until she took two steps back.

Patricia blinked, reminded of Dean's protective tendencies toward Sam and of his earlier warning about not touching his brother.

"I'm sorry," she apologized and glanced at Dr. Stanley as he approached on the opposite side of the brothers to further diffuse the situation.

The nurse briefly ducking her head at the doctor's disapproving scowl – because he had already told her once to back off, had warned against her worrying and hovering.

Dean was not the type to tolerate much of that, and the teen had clearly reached his limit.

Patricia sighed, frustrated with herself and knowing she was about to be dismissed since that's what the doctor did when she had worn out her welcome in the exam room – he politely and professionally excused her with an errand.

And though that was usually hard to take, Patricia knew it was always in the patient's best interest, and she respected her boss for that.

Patricia sighed once more.

"Trish..." Dr. Stanley began, staring at her from the other side of Dean. "How 'bout you go ahead and get things moving down in billing?" he suggested. "That way these boys can head home a little quicker after we finish up here."

"Finish up here?" Dean echoed, his tone reflecting his annoyance at the implication they were not done.

Because according to Dean, they _were_ done.

The biopsy was complete. The stitches were in place. And Dean had a little brother to take home before the kid lost his tenuous control over his rebelling stomach.

As a reminder, Sam swallowed and shifted as he stood in front of Dean and stared at his big brother with those squinted eyes, bright with fever and dull with pain, pleading to leave.

Something twisted in Dean's chest.

"I know, Sammy. We're going," he promised, keeping one steadying hand on his brother's bony shoulder as he reached for his plaid button-up shirt crammed in the corner of his chair.

"Trish..." Dr. Stanley called again, frowning at his nurse's uncharacteristic hesitation in following his orders. "Billing," he repeated, paraphrasing his earlier instructions.

Patricia held the doctor's gaze, her attention flickering between him and the brothers before she nodded. "Sure," she agreed and offered an apologetic smile as she turned, leaving the exam room and closing the door behind her.

Dr. Stanley sighed, hating it when he had to navigate the rare but awkward occasions when Patricia unintentionally overstepped the boundaries separating nurse and mother.

"Sorry about that," the doctor commented, gesturing toward the door to indicate he was referring to his nurse's behavior. "She means well."

"Yeah," Dean replied, his tone distracted as he released his hold on Sam long enough to slip his arms through the long sleeves of his outer shirt.

Sam watched, swallowing hard and often.

Dean noticed. "Hang on, Sammy. Almost ready."

Sam hummed a response, still gripping Dean's amulet in his right hand as he stood in front of his brother and waited, comforted by the charm digging into his palm, distracting him from the pain and nausea threatening to absolutely consume him.

God, he hated migraines.

But at least he wasn't the one who had endured a biopsy barely five minutes ago.

At least he wasn't the one with stitches in his neck.

At least he wasn't the one who might have _cancer_.

Sam swallowed, feeling nauseous for a different reason.

Because what were they going to do if Dean had cancer?

 _What were they going to do?_

Sam sighed, his attention shifting to the doctor as he spoke.

"Before you go..." Dr. Stanley began, watching as Dean reached around Sam to retrieve his leather jacket from his chair and slip it on. "There's one more thing I should mention. One more recommendation that will help confirm a diagnosis in addition to the results of the biopsy."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the doctor's hesitant tone and concerned expression, feeling himself inwardly groan.

Now what?

Dean adjusted the collar of his leather jacket. "Okay..." he drawled. "What is it? Make it quick," he ordered the doctor, sounding as impatient as he felt and then frowning as Sam turned to reach for his coat.

Dean shook his head in disapproval, the big brother halting Sam's movement with an arm lightly pressed against the kid's chest to stop him from turning around any further.

"I've got it," Dean told his brother in full-on caretaker mode – not only grabbing Sam's coat from his chair but then holding it as well, waiting for the 12-year old to slip his arms through the sleeves.

"I'm not three-years old, Dean..." Sam grumbled even as he accepted his brother's help.

Dean twitched a smile at Sam's complaining but said nothing.

Both brothers knowing that Sam's overly sensitive body would tolerate little extra movement right now, including the twisting and turning required in putting on a coat.

"You're welcome," Dean quipped once Sam was situated and winked at his grumpy kid, the 12-year old understandably moody when he was emotionally drained and felt like crap.

Sam offered a shy smile and sighed as Dean pulled him close, leaning his head against his brother and glancing at the doctor as the man watched them.

Dean focused his attention on the doctor as well. "You were saying?"

Dr. Stanley blinked, amazed how seamlessly these brothers interacted and how they seemed to forget he was even there...but then resumed the conversation as though it had never paused.

"Hey," Dean called, his impatience returning at the doctor's silence – because although Sam was holding steady, that didn't mean the kid wasn't still a mess, wasn't still on the verge of throwing up.

Dean could feel the slight tremors shivering through his little brother as Sam leaned against him, the 12-year old exhausted from the constant inward battle between his head and his stomach as he fought to maintain the fragile equilibrium.

Dean sighed and rubbed Sam's shoulder – encouraging his kid to hang on just a little while longer – and then glared at the doctor. "Dude. Can we hurry the hell up here, or what?"

Dr. Stanley smiled at the blunt question-that-was-really-an-order and nodded. "Sorry," he apologized. "Guess it's been a long day for all of us..." he commented as he shuffled papers in Dean's chart and refocused on what he had intended to say.

Dean waited, his little brother still resting against him.

Dr. Stanley sighed, uncertain how this news would be received by either brother. "Okay. Well..." He cleared his throat. "Even though you reported no coughing or shortness of breath," he reminded Dean. "I still recommend you get a chest x-ray along with a CT scan."

Both brothers frowned and spoke in unison.

"Why?"

Dr. Stanley glanced between Dean and Dean's little brother. "Well, there's several reasons. But the primary reason is to see if there are any other enlarged lymph nodes in your chest, abdomen, or pelvis," he told Dean. "Or perhaps any enlarged organs."

"Oh my god..." Sam whispered, and Dean could feel the kid tense beside him. "What does _that_ mean?"

It certainly couldn't mean anything good, couldn't mean that Dean was healthy. Other enlarged lymph nodes or enlarged organs probably only meant one thing.

Sam swallowed as the word _cancer_ echoed in his mind.

Dean shook his head, knowing exactly where his brother's thoughts had wandered...because his had followed.

Cancer.

Shit.

Did the doctor think his body was overrun with it? Was being silently consumed by the disease?

Shit.

 _Shit._

Dean exhaled an even breath, sounding calmer than he felt as he once again rubbed his little brother's shoulder. "It's okay, Sammy," he soothed as the kid continued to lean against him. "Dr. Stanley's just doing his job. Just wants to make sure he checks everything." He paused. "Kinda like we always check everything, right?"

Even when it was a simple hunt, even when it seemed the spirit was gone – they always checked everything.

That's what good hunters did.

And that's what good doctors did, too.

But _shit_.

This was _fucking scary_.

Scarier than any hunt Dean had ever faced.

This possibility of cancer that had been mentioned earlier and now lingered around every corner. This ever-present intruder ruining any chance of peace, constantly peeking out between the lines of dialogue and tainting everything that was said.

Dean sighed once more, corralling his thoughts. "Sammy. We always check everything, right?" he repeated, feeling his brother nod against his arm.

Dr. Stanley smiled as he watched Dean reassure his little brother, wondering what they were talking about but knowing better than to pry. "Your brother's right," he told Sam and nodded when the 12-year old glanced at him. "There's no need to be upset or to worry about this. We're just checking everything."

Checking everything so that once the Hodgkin's lymphoma was confirmed and officially diagnosed, they would be able to quickly stage the disease and move forward with treatment.

But neither brother needed to know that now.

Dr. Stanley maintained his smile, hating how duplicitous he sometimes felt when he withheld information from patients during this phase of diagnosis.

Dean held the doctor's gaze, sensing what he wasn't saying.

Sam sighed, shifting uncomfortably as he stood beside his brother. His head and stomach hurting worse now that he knew Dean faced even more testing.

Chest x-rays, CT scans... _cancer_.

Sam sighed again, squeezing the amulet still held in his right hand.

The strained silence that had settled among them was suddenly interrupted by a soft knock on the door as Patricia entered the exam room.

All eyes turned to her, thankful for the distraction.

"Trish..." Dr. Stanley greeted and smiled at his nurse. "All set?"

Patricia nodded. "All set," she confirmed about her errand in the billing department and glanced at the clock on the wall by the sink.

Dr. Stanley did the same, blinking as he realized how late it was. "Well..." he began. "I guess I better let you boys go."

He smiled at the brothers.

They didn't smile back.

Dr. Stanley didn't take it personally. After all, they had been through a lot in just a few hours. He allowed his smile to fade to just a generally pleasant expression. "Be sure to check that bandage before bed and then again in the morning," he reminded Dean about his covered stitches and then glanced at Sam.

Sam blinked at him, lethargic and clingy – as most kids were when they didn't feel well, clinging to their mom or dad...or big brother.

Dr. Stanley felt surprisingly touched at that realization, reminded of what Dean had said earlier about their dad, reminded that these two brothers only had each other.

The doctor sighed. "And be sure he gets some rest..." he added to Dean about the teen's little brother. "Make sure he also takes those samples of prescription-strength Tylenol that Trish gave you earlier. That will help ease his migraine and will help ease any pain you might experience later, too, once that local wears off."

Dean scowled at the advice, wondering if he looked like a complete dumbass.

Because he knew how to take care of himself _and_ Sam, had been doing so his entire life and didn't plan on stopping anytime soon.

Fuck you, cancer.

Even if Dean didn't end up having it, the sentiment still remained.

Dear cancer, _fuck you_.

Dean snorted at his inner dialogue and carefully nudged his brother, easing the kid off his arm to stand on his own.

Sam swallowed and blinked up at him.

"You ready?"

Sam nodded.

Dean did the same and then glanced at the doctor.

Dr. Stanley smiled, handing Dean's chart to his nurse. "Trish will show you out and will go over specifics about imaging tests we've scheduled for you tomorrow at the hospital. I have rounds over there in the morning, so I'll see you then. Sound good?"

"Sounds super fantastic," Dean replied in his classic dry tone.

He could think of about a million other things he would rather do tomorrow morning...not to mention that if Sam was still sick in the morning, then Dean wouldn't be going anywhere.

But they would cross that bridge later.

Dean sighed, his hand settling on the back of Sam's neck as he steered the kid forward and followed behind Patricia.

* * *

 _ **TBC**_


	8. Chapter 8

There was silence as they walked down the hallway, all the other patients and most of the clinic's staff having already left the facility for the evening.

"Sorry to keep you so late." There was an uncertain pause as their footsteps echoed down the empty corridor, bouncing from tiled floor to shadowed walls. "And sorry about earlier..."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the apologies Patricia offered over her shoulder as he and Sam continued to follow behind her.

The nurse waited for a verbal response and then frowned, misinterpreting her patient's silence for a kept grudge. She sighed, preparing to further explain. "I just – "

" – save it," Dean interrupted, rescuing Patricia from more awkward rambling. "It's fine," he dismissed with a shrug, not having time to hold grudges.

Not when he was distracted by a sick little brother...and stitches in his neck...and looming biopsy results...and unexpected imaging tests...and the possibility of fucking _cancer_.

Dean sighed, his thumb rubbing back and forth under the fringe of hair at the base of Sam's neck.

"Sammy..."

"M'okay," Sam answered as if he wasn't slightly weaving as he walked.

Dean pulled a face at the slurred, quiet response but said nothing to dispute his dizzy little brother, instead keeping his hand lightly but securely on Sam's neck and steering the 12-year old down the hall.

"Here we are..." Patricia announced as they entered a doorway to the left. She smiled at the woman behind the counter. "Just a minute, Anna."

Anna nodded, her gaze flickering to Dean, then Sam, then back to her computer.

Patricia set Dean's chart on the counter, pulling a sheet of paper from within and handing it to Dean. "You'll need this tomorrow when you go to the hospital for your imaging tests," she told him. "Your appointment is at 9:00. And as Dr. Stanley mentioned, he'll see you over there at some point during your visit. Until then, the technicians and other staff will take good care of you. The hospital is one of our sister facilities. Right across town, easy to find."

Dean nodded, scanning the paper before releasing his hold on Sam long enough to fold it and tuck it inside his jacket. "I'll read it later."

"Sounds good," Patricia agreed. "If you have any questions about anything, just call the clinic and ask for me. Otherwise, I'll be calling you once results are in. Usually takes two to ten days."

"That's too long."

Patricia smiled at Dean's little brother as he spoke. "I know," she sympathized, indeed knowing those two to ten days felt like _years_ when you were waiting for a possible diagnosis.

Those days would pass slowly for her, too, because she wanted Dean to be okay – she _needed_ that. She needed him to be okay, to be healthy and with his little brother.

Patricia sighed. "Anna..." she called, attracting the woman's attention and passing Dean's chart to her before refocusing on the brothers. "Take care of those stitches," she told Dean and then glanced at Sam. "And you feel better, sweetheart."

Sam only swallowed and sighed, once again leaning his head against his brother's arm.

Patricia smiled and then glanced at the woman behind the counter. "They're all yours."

Anna nodded, focusing on the boys staring back at her. "Hi, there."

"Yeah, hi," Dean returned, not in the mood for pleasantries. "Listen – "

" – I know," Anna interrupted. "You're tired. Your brother's sick. And you really just want to go home."

Dean twitched a smile.

"Guess what?" Anna continued. "Me, too," she confided and winked at Dean. "So let's make this short and sweet, shall we?"

"Hell yes," Dean agreed.

Anna smiled and nodded before launching into the condensed version of her well-rehearsed speech repeated several times throughout the day in the billing department, both face-to-face and over the phone.

"Here at Mercy Medical Center we operate on the basis of six values."

She gestured to the wall behind the brothers, each value listed and defined in scripted font – _dignity, hospitality, justice, excellence, stewardship, prayer._

"And while all six of those are important, we especially stand committed to those persons who are poor and vulnerable," Anna explained, quoting the last part of _justice_.

Dean arched an eyebrow, not sure if he should be offended or grateful that it seemed he and Sam were being defined as poor and vulnerable.

But what the hell...if this meant Dean paid less money for services rendered, then he was listening.

After all, he had a kid to take care of and money was tight. He would take all the financial assistance he could get, especially if he ended up needing treatment or...whatever.

Dean sighed.

One thing at a time.

"Go on," he encouraged.

Anna nodded. "You don't have health insurance, correct?"

Dean hesitated, that question always being a tricky one to navigate.

But the woman on the opposite side of the counter seemed to already know the answer. So...

"Correct," Dean confirmed about not having valid insurance – but he had several different fraudulent cards, if she would like to see them.

He quirked a tired smile.

Anna smiled in return. "That's fine," she assured him. "Because in talking with Patricia, it seems you qualify for coverage under one of our foundations, which is funded through community donations and provides monetary support for those less fortunate."

"Okay," Dean replied, almost choking over the word as he swallowed his pride on this issue and continued to plunge ahead. "So..."

"So..." Anna echoed, glancing back at her computer monitor. "I've taken the liberty of completing an application for you to participate in the program I mentioned. The majority of your medical expenses will be paid through the foundation for as long as you're a patient here. We only ask that you pay a minimum of $10 per visit as a show of good faith in our partnership to meet your medical needs."

Dean nodded, feeling a proverbial weight lift from his shoulders – because he could definitely afford $10 per visit...though he hoped visiting the clinic wasn't going to become an everyday routine.

"Does that include the x-ray and CT scan at the hospital?"

"Yes," Anna replied. "As Patricia said, the hospital is one of our sister facilities, so the foundation covers those expenses, too." She paused. "I know it's hard for some patients to accept this kind of help, but this really is a good program. I think you'll benefit from it."

Whatever _that_ meant.

Dean stared at the woman, wondering if she was privy to information that confirmed he would be back to the clinic multiple times...or if she was simply implying she knew he was a kid with no money trying to raise another kid.

Either way...

Dean sighed. "Thank you."

And although he knew there was probably more he could say, Dean couldn't find the energy or the words.

Anna didn't seem to mind. "You're welcome," she returned and smiled. "Now...how about that ten bucks?"

Dean chuckled, being careful not to jar Sam as he reached behind himself, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. "How about I go ahead and pay 20 to cover today and tomorrow?"

Anna shrugged. "That's up to you," she replied and accepted the money Dean slid over the counter. "Hang on a sec, and I'll write you a receipt."

Dean nodded and glanced down at Sam still leaning against his arm, the kid drowsy and quiet but awake and listening.

"Hey."

Sam blinked up him.

"You still hangin' in there?"

Sam nodded and tolerated his big brother once again palming his forehead.

"Oh, no. Fever?"

Dean glanced at Anna as she reappeared at the counter, the woman frowning as her gaze flickered between him and Sam.

"I'm okay. My head just hurts," Sam told her, the 12-year old's pinched expression and quiet voice telling the rest of that story – that his head didn't just hurt...it _hurt_.

The kind of headache that made a kid pale and lethargic.

Anna's frown deepened with concern.

Dean fanned his fingers through Sam's floppy bangs as he lifted his hand from the kid's warm forehead and reached for the receipt.

Anna handed it over, still staring at Sam.

"He'll be fine," Dean assured her and then glanced down at his brother. "You ready, Sammy?"

Sam nodded and eased himself away from the support of Dean's arm, standing straighter and feeling his big brother's hand settle on the back of his neck. Its weight warm and familiar and soothing.

"Thanks again," Dean told Anna over his shoulder as he led his brother away from the counter.

Anna smiled. "Absolutely. My pleasure. You two take care of yourselves."

"We always do," Dean replied as he focused on his kid. "Take it slow, Sammy," he cautioned, knowing sudden movements could sometimes set off a series of unpleasant events when Sam was nauseous.

And since they had made it this long without a puking incident, it would suck if the kid threw up now when they were almost out of the clinic.

"Just take it slow..." Dean repeated, keeping his hand on the back of Sam's neck as they walked toward the clinic's double doors and exited the building. "We're gonna stop at the diner on the way back, okay?"

"No."

Dean sighed at the expected response as they crossed the street, thankful the crowds from earlier had gone the fuck home since his patience was nearing zero. "Sam. C'mon, man. There's gotta be something you can eat. I'm not talking about a lot. Just something to help keep the meds down."

"No, Dean. Please."

Dean sighed again, those three words practically his kryptonite whenever his little brother said them in that pitiful tone. But...

"Sorry, Sammy. I gotta get some food in you, dude."

Sam said nothing, staring at the sidewalk through squinted eyes as Dean steered him toward the diner one block over.

The bell over the door jingled the way it did every night they had eaten dinner there, but tonight it was especially loud and grating.

Sam cringed.

Dean squeezed the back of his neck. "You're okay," he whispered. "This won't take long." He smiled as the waitress approached, preparing to charm. "Hi there."

"Hey, hon..." the waitress greeted, accustomed to seeing the pair of brothers each evening around this time, and then gasped as she noticed the large bandage covering the left side of Dean's neck. "Good gracious! What happened to you?"

"Bar fight," Dean answered, quick and smooth without a trace he was joking...or deflecting. "It was crazy."

The waitress pressed her hand to her chest. "Oh my god!"

"Yeah, tell me about it..." Dean agreed. "I was getting my ass handed to me until this guy showed up." He pulled his little brother closer, wrapping his arm around Sam's shoulders. "He looks scrawny, but he's a total badass with the end of a busted bottle."

The waitress scoffed, realizing Dean was spinning quite a tale, and slapped him in the chest with her notepad. "You oughta be ashamed of yourself, tellin' lies to an old woman." She smiled, still curious as to what happened to the teen's neck but decided to let it go since he clearly didn't want to talk about it. "Just for that, I'm not gonna give you your favorite booth."

Dean smiled back, thankful for the light moment but then sobering at the reminder of why he and Sam were there. "Well, actually we need our order to-go tonight."

"Oh." The waitress glanced at Sam standing as close as he could to Dean's side. He was never much of a talker, but he seemed quieter than usual...and pale. She glanced back at Dean. "Everything okay?"

"Been kind of a rough afternoon," Dean admitted, his smile feeling tighter and more forced than before. "So, if you could maybe put a rush on our order..."

"Of course," the waitress assured and flipped her notepad. "What do you two feel like eating tonight?"

"Nothing."

The waitress frowned at Sam's quiet response, then smiled her sympathy. "Not feeling that great, huh?" She glanced again at Dean, sensing the big brother wasn't feeling that great, either...but for different reasons. "Well..." She sighed, thinking. "We've got some chicken and rice soup. It'll be nice and warm but not too heavy. How does that sound?"

"I'm sold," Dean told her and smiled his thanks. "We'll take two."

"Comin' right up," the waitress replied and gestured toward the small waiting area near the cash register. "You boys have a seat, if you want, and I'll be right back."

Dean nodded as she disappeared behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

"If I throw up, I'm blaming you."

Dean chuckled at Sam's comment as he maneuvered his little brother over to the chairs positioned along the far wall. "You don't have to eat all of it. Just _some_ of it."

"Easy for you to say..." Sam grumbled as they both sat down, sighing in unison.

Dean wrapped his arm around his kid, his mind buzzing too much to focus on a single thought. There was so much to sort out – who to call, what to do.

Sam leaned against Dean and stared at nothing.

Several minutes passed as the diner carried on around them like any other night, like everything was fine.

But everything wasn't fine.

Not for them.

Sam sighed again, his gaze wandering.

Over by the window, a family was preparing to leave. The dad wiping his young son's hands and face with a napkin before ruffling the kid's hair.

It was so simple and yet Sam felt a pang of jealousy followed by a sharper twist of sadness.

"Are we gonna tell him?"

Dean blinked his surprise at Sam's question. The kid rarely talked about their dad these days but when he did, Sam always referred to John as "him"– and he always used "we" because they were in this together.

Always together.

"Dean. Are we?"

Dean shook his head, not ready to discuss that...especially not in the waiting area of a diner.

But it was something he needed to decide.

Part of him wanted to tell John, knowing he probably _should_. But the other part wanted to tell their dad to go fuck himself and stay the hell out of their lives, away from Sam.

"Dean. Are we?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean snapped, irritated and _so fucking pissed_ at the entire situation – the uncertainty and fear, the confusion and worry, the vulnerability and doubt. He didn't even know if he had cancer yet, but it was already disrupting their lives and driving him fucking crazy. "I don't know if I'm gonna tell him, okay? I don't know if I'm gonna tell _anybody_. So, shut up and stop asking me. Jesus..."

Dean jerked away from his brother and stood, restless and agitated.

Sam gasped as he was jarred by the sudden movement, looking every bit like a kicked puppy – a _sick_ kicked puppy – as he sat there blinking up at Dean with huge, misty eyes.

Dean's guilt was instant. "Fuck," he hissed, rubbing one hand over his face as he paced a small circle, trying to pull himself back together – because it wasn't fair to lose his shit on Sam.

They were in this together, and the kid had been amazing over the past several hours, had been as brave and supportive as a terrified, anxious 12-year old could be. But Sam was tired now and didn't feel well, and his need for reassurance was overwhelming as his resolve faded.

And Dean knew that. He knew his little brother was just scared, was just trying to sort through everything in his own way...and for Sam, that meant questions.

Lots of questions.

Sometimes the _same_ questions...over and over...just like at the clinic.

Dean sighed, loud and harsh, and turned back to see his kid staring at the floor, holding on to the edges of the chair and swallowing hard.

And if Sam had held it together all afternoon but threw up now because Dean had snatched away from him, Dean was going to feel like the biggest fucking asshole in the whole fucking world.

He sighed again and reached for his brother, desperate to reverse his fuck-up.

"Sammy. I'm sorry."

But Sam shied away from his touch, refusing to even look at him.

And that was fine.

Dean deserved it.

But _damn_ it stung.

Dean clenched his jaw, wishing he could kick his own ass for making a bad situation even worse, for making _Sam_ feel even worse – and not just physically. The kid was closer to tears now than he had been all afternoon, and that was _Dean's_ fault.

Dean sighed once more, _hating_ it when he hurt his kid's feelings.

"Alrighty, fellas..." the waitress chirped as she rounded the corner with a large paper bag, oblivious to the strained silence between the brothers. "Two chicken and rice soups, ready to go. And I put a whole sleeve of saltines in there, too. On the house..." she added with a wink, then paused. "You know what? I can do even better than that. Tonight, everything's on the house."

Dean's eyes widened at the announcement as he shook his head. "No, we can't – "

" – you can. And you will," the waitress interrupted, shoving the bag at Dean.

"But – "

The waitress held up her hand, silencing him. "Don't argue with me, hon. I'm older, and I have more practice."

Dean snorted at that reasoning, though he still felt like he should resist. First the clinic, now this – it was too much charity for a Winchester to accept in one day.

But then again...his money was dwindling. And Dean had a kid to feed. And a motel bill coming at the end of the week...and more clinic visits...and...

"Go on now," the waitress urged, shooing Dean toward his brother. "You two get home before it gets any colder out there." She glanced at Sam. "And before he gets any paler."

Dean reached for Sam's arm, prepared for rejection but counting it a small victory when the kid allowed Dean to pull him to his feet. "Thank you," he told the waitress, keeping a steadying hand on a swaying Sam.

"It's my pleasure," she assured, smiling. "Now go home and take care of each other. I expect to see both of you in here tomorrow, looking and feeling better."

Dean nodded but said nothing as he held their take-out in one hand and guided his brother toward the door with the other, knowing it would take a hell of a lot more than chicken and rice soup to make them feel better.

But...it was a start.

Once outside, Sam's condition deteriorated – everything too bright, too loud, and too much the instant they stepped on the sidewalk. He gasped and gagged at the same time, making a choked sound as he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to prevent what had been building all afternoon.

"Hey. Easy," Dean soothed, pausing long enough to turn Sam before he pulled the kid toward him.

Sam buried his face in Dean's t-shirt, desperate to block the sights and smells causing his head to throb and his stomach to churn.

"Deep breaths, Sammy. You're okay. Just try to relax."

Sam focused on his brother's voice, on the thumb sweeping back and forth over his neck as Dean held him close and steady.

On the sidewalk and in the diner behind them, life moved on. No one noticing, or probably even caring, about Dean and his kid – about the afternoon they had endured, about the future they faced.

It wasn't surprising. But it _was_ reaffirming.

 _It's just you and me_ , Dean thought as his little brother continued to cling to him, feeling strangely proud and satisfied – because there was no one else he would rather have beside him.

Dean sighed. "Sammy..." he called, sensing his brother had settled enough to start walking. "You ready?"

Sam nodded once, slow and careful, but didn't move.

Dean smiled, pulling the hood of the kid's sweatshirt over his head before turning him around to face the world.

Sam gasped at the overstimulating blur and felt Dean reel him back.

"Eyes closed. I've got you."

Sam hummed a response and did as he was told.

They made the trip back to the motel in silence. Sam curled against Dean's side as he focused on placing one foot in front of the other but otherwise switched to autopilot, keeping his eyes closed and his face turned into the comforting leather of Dean's jacket. The familiar scent and texture distracting him from the noise and light while the weight of his big brother's arm around his shoulder kept him grounded, reminded him that Dean would protect him – from anything, from everything.

The thought made Sam's throat tight, the urge to cry rushing to the surface...because who would protect him if something happened to Dean? If Dean got really sick, if Dean _died..._ then what? Who would take care of Sam? Who would love him?

The answer was as simple as it was devastating – nobody.

Bobby would try...of course he would. Maybe even Pastor Jim, too, with Caleb and a few others pitching in when and where they could.

It would take a proverbial village to finish raising Dean's kid.

And Sam would be grateful for their efforts.

But they weren't Dean.

Nobody was Sam's big brother. Nobody could take care of him like Dean. Nobody could _love_ him like Dean.

But now Dean was possibly sick – possibly sick _and dying_ – and his 12-year old little brother was terrified of losing him.

Sam took a shuddering breath and tightened his grip on the hem of Dean's jacket, on the amulet still clutched in his other hand – dangerously close to sobbing in the street...or throwing up. The rawness of his emotions doing nothing to ease the throbbing in his head or the swell of nausea rising in his throat.

"Almost there," Dean whispered more than once, and it took Sam a few seconds longer than it should have to realize when they actually _were_ there, back inside their motel room.

No lamps were left on – because they had no idea they would be at the clinic for as long as they were – but Sam still squinted until Dean stepped in front of him, blocking the light filtering in from the street better than the thin curtain already drawn across the window.

"Sammy..." Dean began, pulling the hood off his brother's head and helping the kid out of his coat before easing him into one of the chairs at the table. "I know you don't want to, but I need you to eat at least some of this," he told his brother, unlidding the Styrofoam bowl.

Sam swallowed and wrinkled his nose at the soup placed in front of him.

"I know," Dean agreed. He didn't have an appetite, either, and the incision in his neck was beginning to sting like a bitch as the anesthetic wore off. "But I need you to try, okay?" he encouraged, exchanging a plastic spoon from the take-out bag for the amulet his brother still held.

Sam sat there, holding the spoon and staring at the steam rising from the bowl.

Dean slipped the amulet over his head and gave Sam a few minutes to psych himself up, positioning the trashcan a little closer – just in case – and digging three pills from the stash of prescription-strength Tylenol in his jacket pocket.

"One for you, two for me..." Dean commented, placing the medication on the table and then crossing to the mini fridge in the corner.

Sam continued to sit there as Dean returned with two bottles of water, shrugged out of his jacket, and sat across from him.

Dean sighed, reaching into the bag for the saltines the waitress had mentioned. "Here. Try this first," he suggested, offering his brother a cracker and wondering if anyone else had the patience for this.

If Dean got sick and was unable to take care of Sam – if Dean _died_ – would anyone else be patient enough to reason and bargain and persist? Would anyone else be able to get his kid to eat?

The thought was startling, was just one more thing to worry about.

Dean sighed again and rubbed his forehead. "Sammy. Please eat this fucking cracker."

Sam snorted a soft laugh but reached across the table.

Dean watched his brother nibble on the saltine with his eyes closed, like the kid expected to puke at any second and had turned all of his attention inward as he fought that battle.

A few seconds later, the cracker was gone and they were back to just sitting there, waiting for something to happen.

But nothing did.

Dean smiled as Sam held out his hand. "Okay. One more," he allowed, placing another cracker in the kid's palm. "But then we try some soup."

Sam nodded, keeping his eyes closed as he ate the second cracker.

And so it went – the brothers eating in the dark as Dean supplied Sam with cracker chasers for every spoonful of soup the kid managed to swallow.

But after he had eaten barely half of the amount in the bowl, Sam pushed away from the table, turning to fully face the trashcan.

Dean felt his own stomach twist with dread as Sam leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees as he breathed through his mouth and cast a frantic glance at Dean like he expected his big brother to somehow stop what was coming.

Dean was already out of his chair, squatting beside his kid. "It's okay. I'm right here," he soothed, rubbing Sam's back and wondering who would do this if he couldn't.

Who would comfort his little brother? Who wouldn't flinch if Sam threw up on them? Who would clean up after him if Sam was sick and then put him to bed and lay beside him until he drifted to sleep? Who would rub his back and tell him he would feel better in the morning?

 _Who?_

Who could Dean trust with the one thing he loved the most?

Dean sighed, feeling crushed by the weight of such a heavy decision even though he knew Bobby was the obvious choice. The older hunter was already more of a father to them than John and had taken care of Sam multiple times. He loved the kid and could be trusted to put Sam first...and to keep John away from him.

Sam gasped a shaky breath, scattering Dean's thoughts, then coughed and gagged; his whole body moving with the force.

But still nothing happened.

Sam moaned and reached for Dean's hand.

"Shhh, I know..." Dean murmured and squeezed the small hand grasping his, indeed knowing how miserable it was to be caught in this limbo. "Just try to breathe through it," he urged, wanting Sam's food to stay exactly where it was...along with the pain and fever medication he took.

Sam closed his eyes, once again turning inward.

After several minutes of tense silence, he turned to look at Dean with a hesitant smile.

Dean arched an eyebrow and smiled back. "Really?"

Sam answered with a cautious nod and swallowed.

Dean's smiled widened, thankful another wave of nausea had passed without incident and his kid was still fed and medicated. "Well, that was close..."

Sam nodded again.

Dean patted Sam's knee before he stood and took the trashcan with him, relocating it between the two beds. "Alright. Go brush your teeth while I clean up."

Sam heard his brother but didn't move, watching as Dean rubbed at the bandage on his neck and winced.

Dean turned to hide the painful expression from Sam but could still feel the kid tracking him as he crossed to the other side of the table.

"I'm fine. Go."

Sam hummed his doubt but retreated to the bathroom, taking care of business before brushing his teeth as he listened to Dean move around behind him – turning on the single lamp in the far corner, clearing the table, opening and closing drawers...and then joining him in the small space, already changed for bed.

"I couldn't find your _My Little Pony_ shirt, so..." Dean shrugged and smiled, teasing his little brother as he handed over the kid's sleep clothes.

Sam pulled a face.

Dean chuckled around the toothbrush in his mouth, one hand on the handle while the other hovered over an unsteady little brother still dizzy from a massive migraine. A garbled version of _be careful_ was said more than once as Sam finished changing clothes and Dean finished brushing his teeth.

"Okay, Sammy. Bedtime for you, dude. I'm just gonna take a look at this." Dean peeled back the edges of the tape, removing the blood-stained gauze from his neck and dropping it in the trash. "Maybe clean it up a little, put another bandage over it...then I'll be right behind you."

But instead of leaving the bathroom, Sam mirrored Dean's movements, crouching beside his brother and grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink before Dean could reach it.

Dean snorted. "Nice reflexes," he praised and stood, recognizing the stubborn expression on Sam's face.

"I'll do it," Sam told him, speaking for the first time since the diner.

Something warm spread through Dean's chest.

"I appreciate that, Sammy. But I need to turn on the lights in here so I can check the incision and clean it. And I know you and lights aren't friends right now."

Sam quirked a smile. "No...but it's okay. I can take it."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Sam..."

"You take care of me even when you don't feel good," Sam pointed out, that stubborn expression returning. "Like tonight...I know your neck hurts but you're still taking care of me...especially when I thought I was gonna...you know..."

Dean chuckled, always amused that Sam refused to say anything about throwing up as if saying any of the associated words would make it happen.

"So, now it's your turn?"

Sam nodded. "We take care of each other."

That warm feeling spread deeper and wider in Dean's chest.

"Damn right we do," he agreed and held his hand over Sam's eyes, shielding them from the lights he flicked on.

Sam blinked rapidly at the sudden brightness flooding the bathroom before settling into a pinched squint.

Dean sighed, not liking his brother's obvious discomfort but understanding the kid's determination to tend to him...and appreciating it more than Sam would ever know.

"You good?"

Sam nodded.

Dean did the same, lowering his hand from Sam's eyes and sitting on the closed toilet so his little brother could reach him.

Sam balanced the first aid kit on the edge of the counter and opened it, scanning the contents and grabbing an alcohol wipe. "This is gonna sting."

Dean smiled, wondering how many times he had said that to Sam over the years. "It already stings," he admitted about the pain tingling to life without the mask of anesthetics.

Sam frowned. "Bad?"

"Nah," Dean dismissed, because he had certainly endured worse. "It's normal. Go ahead."

Sam nodded, biting his lip in concentration and squinting at the incision as he dabbed away the dried blood peeking through the stitches.

"How does it look?" Dean asked, curious for the kid's opinion while also judging Sam's skills with wound assessment.

"It's red but clean. I think the doctor did a good job."

"I think you're right," Dean replied, standing to check his reflection in the mirror before sitting back on the closed toilet. "Now what?"

Sam tossed the used wipe in the trash and grabbed the gauze.

Dean nodded, watching as Sam stacked the squares and cut the tape just like Dean had shown him. "Why do you cut the tape before you cover the wound?"

"It's just good to have all of your supplies ready before you start."

Dean nodded again, proud of his little brother...even if the kid could barely see with how hard he was squinting beneath the bathroom lights. "Sammy. How's your head?"

"Still hurts," Sam admitted, smoothing the last strip of tape over the fresh bandage on Dean's neck. "And my stomach still feels kinda..." His voice trailed off but his expression told the rest.

"Well, the meds should kick in soon," Dean said, examining Sam's work in the mirror before sitting again and giving the kid an approving smile. "Good job, dude."

"I had a good teacher."

And it was those kinds of sappy but genuine comments that clenched Dean's heart every single time.

He gave an affectionate, careful ruffle to Sam's hair and sighed. "I know it's still a little early for two party animals like us...but what'd ya say we go to bed?"

Sam nodded like it was the best idea he had heard all day.

Dean had to agree it sounded pretty damn good. "Okay, just remember I put the trashcan beside the bed in case you need it. And you know if you need me, I'm right there, so just…" He paused as tears started welling in Sam's eyes. "Whoa. Hey. What's wrong?"

The night had finally evened out to some semblance of normalcy...but now Sam was on the verge of crying again.

"Sammy..."

Sam's inhalation was sharp and broken, and suddenly Dean had a sobbing 12-year old reaching for him.

Dean wrapped his arms around his little brother as Sam climbed in his lap, clinging to him and finally releasing the tears that had threatened all afternoon.

For the first few minutes, Dean just sat there and held him, rubbing Sam's back as the kid cried out his fear and anxiety. The familiar, soothing motion eventually calming him enough to speak through his tears.

"What if..." Sam inhaled a hiccupping breath. "What if one day you're not right there?" he asked, breaking his big brother's heart. "What if one day I'm...I'm alone?"

And wasn't that their biggest fear – one brother being without the other?

Dean couldn't imagine anything more terrifying.

"You're not gonna be alone," he assured, still rubbing his kid's trembling back.

"But...but..."

"Sam. Listen. I'm not gonna tell him," Dean continued, finally answering Sam's question about John. "But I _am_ calling Bobby in the morning. And he'll come out here. You know he will."

"But he's n-not you."

Dean smiled, hoping his little brother always thought he was irreplaceable. "No, Bobby's not me. But he can stay with you and take care of you if I get sick or need treatment."

Sam only seemed to cry harder.

Dean sighed. "Sammy..."

"I don't want you to die."

And there it was – the elephant in the room.

"Anyone else can die," Sam sobbed, fisting the back his brother's shirt as if he could keep Dean with him if he just held on tight enough. "But not you. You can't die because...because I love you. And I don't want you to leave me."

Sam's emotion was raw, and his words sliced deep.

Dean felt his throat tighten as his own eyes began to mist. "I love you too, Sammy," he whispered, Winchesters rarely saying those words aloud – or to each other – but fuck it.

Sam needed to know.

"Hey. Look at me." Dean eased his brother back, thumbing away the kid's tears. "There is nothing I wouldn't do to be with you...to protect you and take care of you. Nothing I wouldn't go up against. Nothing I wouldn't fight..." He paused, making sure Sam was listening. "...and that includes cancer."

Sam sniffled and swallowed.

"If that's what this turns out to be, I promise I'm gonna fight, Sammy. I'm gonna fight with everything I've got." Dean paused again, twitching a smile. "And what happens when your big brother fights?"

Sam sniffled once more. "You win."

"Hell yes," Dean agreed and winked at the kid sitting in his lap, wiping away a few lingering tears rolling down Sam's cheeks. "I win. I kick cancer's ass, and I stay right where I belong, beside my little brother."

Sam was still an emotional mess, but he smiled and nodded. "I like that plan."

Dean smiled back. "So do I," he replied, pulling Sam into a tight hug and kissing his brother's temple – Winchesters rarely giving out hugs and kisses...but fuck that, too.

Dean loved his kid.

And cancer or no cancer, he had no intention of leaving him.

* * *

 _ **END**_

 **A/N: This story was always meant to end here. But it was also meant to lay the groundwork for a 'verse, so...stay tuned. There will likely be more of this journey at some point through other stories.**


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